Not Lightly Do the Leaves of Lorien Fall
by filigod
Summary: Follow the Three Hunters from Helm's Deep to Pelargir, to the Black Gate and beyond. The Gray (elven) Company's last ride. Legolas' most painful lesson. Gondor's last hope. Who will fall? How shall they fare in the days of the King? (possible MS warning)
1. I ROCHON U THIOL The missing rider

_Note: Changes in the proper order of events, the characters, and the camera's focus are the fault of my Muse more than Peter Jackson, but this is definitely Kiwi Tolkien. Brace yourselves for scattered battle scenes, and enjoy the story._  
  
  
  
**Part I: Helm's Deep**

  


** Auth anglenna a er-rochon ú-thia.   
Cû mín vi camen. Nae boe enni vellon a ú-goth.**

_ (Battle approaches, and one rider does not appear.  
My bow is in my hand. Alas, it is friend not foe I need.)_

  
Théoden strode out of the king's hall, past the crumbling knees of Helm Hammerhand's statue, and circled the outermost ring wall of the keep. His boots rang heavily on the flagstones. Flanked by his guard, the king mounted the stairs of the gate's overlook, a battlemented platform which jutted like a ship's prow towards the deserted plains of Rohan. He braced his hands against the weathered rock of the parapet and looked to the north. Soon the gravelled flats before him would be filled with a vast army. Only the inner and outer keep, the great Deeping Wall spanning from its ramparts to the opposite cliff, and the keep's high tower stood between his people's mountain refuge and an endless tide of swords.  
No foe has ever taken the Hornburg, so long as men are left to defend her, the king proclaimed in a booming voice. Warriors in the courtyard behind him straightened with a scuff of chain and metal.  
Their dwarven visitor gave the broken statue a sober glance, then rapped the back of his mailed fist against a railing. There is good stone here, Gimli acknowledged.  
Foes shall break upon our walls like water against rock, Théoden stated with proud conviction, turning back towards the bailey and the tower.  
Only one set of shoulders was not flung back as the king's words kindled the hope his men so desperately needed to survive the night. The elf stood off to one side, gaze turned inwards. There was neither fear nor grief to be seen on the ageless face, yet he might well have been stone himself.  
He was just one warrior in three hundred: the king had many more pressing concerns. But there was no other like him. Théoden had begun to believe the legends about his strange folk of whom the Rohirrim spoke with whispered fear. Right now the fair-faced youth— no, older than trees, as the king often had to remind himself— seemed nearly human, although he mourned the loss of a comrade in a very different way from humankind. He was quiet. Only that.  
Théoden rested a hand firmly on Legolas' shoulder as he passed, enough to make the elf stir and fix blue-gray eyes on him before inclining his head courteously to the king. Then Théoden passed back into the citadel and launched into a rapid spate of commands to his followers. The doors boomed shut behind them.  
Gimli came to a halt by the elf and gave him a long look. It is good stone, he said, voice even gruffer than usual.  
Legolas dropped his gaze to the dwarf and smiled quietly. 

  


  
  
Together they turned and strolled back towards the Deeping Wall, drawing whispers from men who did not know about elven hearing. Their journey took some time, for there was no easy way between the citadel and outer defenses. They passed through the narrow tunnel delved in the bailey's outer wall, along a high parapet that hugged the massive outcrop on which the Hornburg was built, and down a long, broad set of steps to the deep garth. Here men were hurriedly gathering rocks as crude missiles for the murder-holes, setting up watchfires, escorting the women and children back into the tower and the caves beneath it. Elf and dwarf drew stares as they passed among these people, but also stammered words of thanks. Then the pair climbed the nearer of the two long stairways hugging the stout wall's inner face. From there they could survey the Deeping Coomb, a great gorge between two steep spurs of the mountains, whose jaws lay open towards the Gap of Rohan and distant Isengard.  
It was drawing towards sunset, and massive stormclouds were eating up what light remained in the sky. The air was warm, strangely stifling, and too dry for the season, as if the clouds above were full of smoke instead of rain. The sun had fallen behind the mountains, and their somber shadows stretched from cliff to cliff, covering the long causeway leading up to the main gate of the Hornburg. In the distance, the fields of Rohan were yet sunlit, but a dull haze, tinted red in the last hour of the day, lay heavily upon them.  
All these things they saw, or at least the elf saw them. The dwarf did not pay much attention: he had his axe. They stood looking out and sharing very little speech, the last two companions— for all they knew— left of the Fellowship. The Rohirrim gave the pair a respectful distance. Neither dwarf nor elf were the sort to ponder how they of all their race had come to be there, in a fortress of men whose prospects of lasting the night were slim, but there were mutters around them from men who had time, too much time, to think right now.  
Behind and below them in the Deep, Théoden's captains were distributing spears, swords, helms and mail to all the able-bodied men among the families who had taken refuge there at their king's bidding. Gimli trudged over to the edge of the wall-walk and stooped to inspect their equipment. He grumbled. Peasants, and most have seen too many winters.   
Or too few, Legolas returned, not turning around.  
The dwarf heaved an exasperated sigh. Then he raised his head, catching an echo in his helm of a sound dim and far away. It sounded like a marsh-bird's mournful cry, but Gimli knew it was something else. Friend or foe? he asked diffidently.  
Legolas had straightened behind him. That is no orc horn, he said fiercely. He turned and raced for the nearest staircase. Théoden King!  
Blinking, Gimli started to follow his fleet companion, then pulled up short and squinted out through a crenel. There were points of light in the gloom, and they were not torches. The faint glint of gold was like a river of fish coming towards them. Yes. It had to be a small host on the march. Not Éomer's, however, for they were on foot. Perhaps more men of Rohan?  
Make ready to open the gate! Théoden shouted, striding towards the stairs up to the keep. Legolas was dashing ahead of the king— curse the boy, following him was like trying to snatch a spark sprung from the forge— and was already out of sight by the time Gimli reached the head of the stairs.  
More of those wights! said a soldier leaning on the parapet.  
marvelled the younger man beside him. It's more elves!  
Much good that will do, the graybeard muttered.  
Gimli moved up beside them and peered out. Elves? But the men's eyes were not deceived. The flashes of gold had resolved into figures moving like links in a chainmail shirt, in perfect unison.  
Gimli growled to the men taking no notice of him, You'd best keep your voice down, horse-master. You're within their arrow-range.  
He grinned dourly at the men's expressions as they turned and stared at him. The elven company was still half a league away.  


When Gimli finally reached the courtyard behind the main gate, the doors were already open. It took some elbow-work for him to reach the king and plant himself at Legolas' side. Around them, tense guards gripped spears and swords, watching the darkness beyond the portal, unsure after all what might be coming. The stones trembled lightly, but the tramp of the marching host was muffled even when the front ranks came through the gateway without breaking stride. Théoden's people were caught offguard. There was a general rustle of indrawn breath, creaking leather, and weapons clenched as the men awaited word from their king.  
The dwarf recognized the elf who came forward, bowing courteously to the king. I am Haldir, he said smoothly. I bring word from Lord Elrond of Rivendell. Long ago there was an alliance of elves and men against the foes of the free world. Now again the Enemy has arisen, and it is time to renew that alliance. I bring five hundred bows in token of this. Where shall we stand?  
Théoden, dumbfounded, took a moment to find his voice. Captain Haldir, you and all your folk are more welcome than the tongues of my men can speak. You may stand anywhere in Rohan you have a will.  
Your walls are broad, said Haldir.  
The king studied him, taking the elf's measure and collecting his thoughts. Then the man smiled. Come, lord, and you may be the judge.  
Haldir inclined his head to Théoden, and a second time to Legolas who stood beside the king. The Rohirrim raised their spears and parted, drawing back against the ring-walls and standing at attention in wonderment and unease. Théoden turned to lead the way, and the elves followed him without looking left or right. Behind the last mailed foot, the causeway doors came together with a dull boom.  
_Mae govannen_, Legolas said in a low, eager voice to Haldir, falling in beside him. I did not look for your coming.  
Where is Lord Aragorn? Haldir queried. I carry a message for him from Imladris.  
A gleam of silver appeared in Legolas' palm in reply. The Evenstar lay there, even brighter amidst the gloom and the walls of men.  
What is this? Haldir asked sharply.  
The Mirkwood elf shook his head.  
We were ambushed by Warg-riders on the road to Helm's Deep, Gimli growled, stumping along next to his friend. We fought to keep those devils from slaughtering the common folk: peasants, women, children, all those we were guarding on the way here. We couldn't find Aragorn anywhere when the battle was over.  
He fell, Legolas said bluntly.  
The elf-host came to a halt between one step and the next. There was a ripple of... something... through their ranks. No expression changed, no word was said, and yet it was as if a cold wind had passed among them. The men of Helm's Deep looked at one another in consternation. The king stopped too and turned, his jaw tightening as he realized the cause of the hitch.  
Then we are needed all the more, Thranduilion, Haldir said, breaking the tense silence. He resumed his march, the other elves following as before. There were murmurs of relief and approval from the men lining the walls who had been watching this exchange. King Théoden gave Haldir a grim nod of thanks before passing through the narrow tunnel leading out to the deep garth. When they had reached the bottom of the stairs and open ground, again, the elves did not pause, but simply parted, half of them taking up position on either side of the stream that divided the garth, and half heading for the battlements of the Deeping Wall.  
Théoden asked Gimli, when the dwarf came up beside him.  
Legolas. His father Thranduil is the king of Mirkwood in Rhovanion, he answered loudly.  
Many heads turned, although most of the men were staring towards the glittering host of elves already. Several conversations were cut short or triggered by Gimli's revelation. Théoden gave the reserved green-clad elf a look of fresh appraisal. Long ago by men's reckoning, the Rohirrim had dwelt in Rhovanion, west of the great forest.  
Gimli noticed Legolas looking towards him with a wry expression. The dwarf drew himself up with an audible huff. He was careful not to smile when he spotted a hint of a grin flicker across the elf's face.  
One other pair of eyes was fixed keenly on Legolas' shoulders as he mounted the steps beside Haldir. The watcher was smaller and stockier than the rest of the company, and moved in step but not with the grace of elvenkind.  
  



	2. NAUVA I NAUVA What should be shall be

  


Night was falling, and through its murk the watchers could begin to make out a red glow on the horizon which had nothing to do with sunset. Rain was ringing on mail and helm when a lone rider came trailing up the arching span of the causeway. It was not an elf, and there was no bright mail; the horse was without gear or harness, and the rider looked as if he had bathed in a sump. But this time the clamor was heard clear back into the heart of the citadel, where Théoden was conferring with his captains. Legolas followed the shouting to the outer keep. For once the dwarf had beaten him, since Gimli had gone to hunt for armor while the elf sought a place for them among his people on the battlements. The elf paused on the lip of the ring-wall, tasting one of those rare mortal moments between now and now when the world could change utterly. He looked down. This time, Aragorn was there.  
In spite of threats and chastisements, the dwarf seemed to be doing the man no worse harm than he had already suffered that day, so Legolas did not come down. There was little time for reunion. Aragorn strode for the citadel with Gimli trudging after. It showed something of the Ranger's condition that he failed to notice the resolute elf planted before the doors to the inner keep, until Legolas blocked his way with a stern, _Le abdollen_. The elf held out his hand.  
Aragorn broke into a ragged grin as he clasped it. He glanced down. The Evenstar glittered in a palm that was not fair but gnarled, filthy, and stained with dried blood. And that was where it belonged.  
The man's fingers closed tightly over it. _Hannon le_.  
Only then did the elf smile, and Aragorn raised his eyes to meet the fierce affection in the gaze of a friend, one who knew the greatest treasure in Rohan now lay in Aragorn's hand.  
The world settled back into its proper place along with the jewel. Legolas fell into step beside him as if he had been there all along.  
said the elf quietly.  
The man glanced at him.  
Legolas shook his head. You look terrible.  
Comely elf, Aragorn muttered under his breath, drawing a snort from Gimli. Next time, _you_ can kiss my horse. 

The doors of the king's hall yielded to Aragorn's shove and swung open with a ponderous groan. Théoden, awaiting them with his captains, stood in full armor. Old Gamling was poised at his liege's side with a mailed glove resting on his sword-hilt. A whisper passed around the stout-walled chamber: _Aragorn_. Their faces loosened with amazement as much as if their bedraggled visitor had come with the light of the Elendilmir shining from his brow, and the fair elf and sturdy dwarf that stationed themselves on either side of the portal were an everyday occurrence.  
What sorcery is this? the king marvelled, in the silence between the Ranger's slow footfalls.  
Aragorn crossed the length of the hall and bowed his head. Théoden King. I arrive ahead of the host of Saruman, but they are hard on my heels. How are the defenses?  
Théoden looked at him, dazed. I dreamed they were shouting the name of Théodred. And when I realized my ears did not deceive me, I knew it was only the frayed hopes of my men, giving voice to a dream.  
I am sorry. Aragorn raised his chin. Your son's horse, Brego, found me, raised me, and bore me here needing no guidance. I owe him my life, and through him Théodred. It was not my intent to come so honored.  
The eyes of the king hardened, taking in the sorry state of the Ranger's attire, the layer of grime that could not be scoured away by river or rain, and his torn and bloody shoulder. He hardly cut a regal figure just now. If my son's horse has a mind to bear you anywhere in Rohan, Théoden said finally, who am I to oppose him? Also, your debt is paid.  
Aragorn turned at the flash of gold, as one other came into the king's hall. This time it was his turn to gape. The bright elven-mail, sweeping mahogany bow spiralled with gold, and the gleaming swan feathers of the arrows nodding at the elf's shoulder seemed unreal set against drab walls of rough-hewn stone. The one who bore them made the men of Théoden's household look like mere hobbits by comparison. The elf strode towards him with a glad expression, although his speech was grave. Our kinsman said you might not be coming. I am pleased he was mistaken.  
_Mae govannen, mellon nín... man angol hen_? Aragorn forgot all decorum and embraced the elven captain, who suffered it good-naturedly.  
Haldir answered in level tones. I come at Elrond's bidding and Galadriel's. We have not forgotten the Heir of Elendil or the Last Alliance, whose work is incomplete until our Enemy is vanquished for all time. The elves are with you, Aragorn.  
King Théoden clapped a broad hand on the Ranger's back. You've brought us that luck of yours on which the dwarf keeps harping, Lord Aragorn. Our defenses are strong indeed! Let them come. 

_*(Well met, my friend... What sorcery is this?)_

  
  
Such simple moments belonged to another world.  
Lightning clawed the sky, but it was a frozen tableau compared to the seething battle below. The sea of orcs stretched off into the night, a river of torches unquenched by the sparse hard drops of rain. Sheets of arrows arced overhead from the elves standing in the garth behind the wall. Up top all was a flurry of bodies, blood, weapons, snarling orcs hurtling down from ladders as fast as ladders and grappling hooks were hurled up, elves flashing with an economy of deadly motion, slicing through their most hated foes. And there was one formidable dwarf.  
roared Gimli only yards away, slamming his axe through another orc-helm.  
I have twenty-three, Legolas sang out. Nothing touched the forest elf as he spun and danced on the narrow lip of stone, living in a different world from the slow-moving bodies of the orcs heaving around him. His knife spun and plunged into another chest, pulled out in a smooth arc, and alighted briefly in the scabbard tucked against his quiver, as he plucked another arrow and laid it to string. Two more orcs tumbled from the nearest scaling ladder, arrow-pierced. Knives and shafts flew in a complex rhythm as their owner cut his way through mortal danger with the fearlessness of his race. This was life. This was death. Two ends of the same blade. 

  



	3. I LAISS DANNER The leaves fall

  
In the thick of melee, Legolas was abstractly aware of his own people about him, burning with an inner fire like the stars for which they were named, existing in a different plane almost from the races he had come to know in the Fellowship. He had learned respect for mortals whose courage was honed by fear. Their fighting was more akin to orc than elf: broad movements, finesse without grace, battle without beauty, seizing openings with economy however they came to hand. On so dark a night as this, their courage and skill would be sore tested, for without the eyesight of elves, they faced a nightmare struggle against shadows they could barely see. But the men of Rohan had the defense of the keep and the bailey behind the gate; on the Deeping Wall, Legolas was surrounded only by his own kind. His heart was leaping with the flash of the elven-blades beside him, the music of the bows of Lórien undaunted by the lashing rain, and the voices of his fair kindred raised in defiance not song. It awakened in him something that had slept since Rivendell, or perhaps even since the Battle of the Five Armies almost eighty years ago.  
Yet Uruk snarls drowned out fair voices, and swift as they were, elves could not dodge arrows, nor did every orc-blade miss its mark. Another defender took the place of the last to fall. Legolas would not have noticed this one more than the rest, but the fighter was small, solidly built, more like one of the sons of men pressed into the desperate siege. He moved swiftly yet unhurriedly, using movement and space itself as if his sword were only an extension of that space. That was an elven trick. He had some knack for turning the treacherous footing, rain-slicked stones that made skidding easier than stopping, to his own advantage. Yet there was something wrong with him, for the force of his blows was weak, and his swordsmanship was more like Gimli's hewing strokes than the controlled arcs of elven blade-work. The fighter's face was familiar. But all this came to Legolas in a moment: his world was balanced between the twang of his bow and the edges of his blades.  
Finally there was a lull as he cut through the last orc from the most recent attempt on the walls. The cries of men and orcs, the thud of more ladders hitting the ramparts, and the tumult and confusion of battle were suddenly more dissonant and jarring, now that the play of movement for the elf had briefly come to a standstill. The reek of torches, metal and oil, the living and the dying smote upon his senses. He took a breath through clenched teeth and nocked another arrow. At the same time he spared a concerned glance for the smaller fighter, to learn whether his neighbor was wounded, or whether the host of the Galadrim had admitted inexperienced striplings into its ranks.  
It was not a he, and Legolas had seen those intent blue eyes somewhere before. She looked up, fierce delight in the grin she flashed towards him before turning to meet another ladder bearing down on them. The leading orc was carved open between his knives and her sword, before its boots ever reached the flagstones.  
Lord Thranduilion, she said with a duck of her chin as she twisted her blade back, around, and down into the the face-grill of the next orc-head that popped over the wall. There was no time for a reply. Aragorn was shouting for Legolas, and a moment later the strange fighter was forgotten as the elf bent his bow to the Dúnedan's will. One shaft punched through the oncoming foe racing towards the foot of the wall below him, carrying a huge sputtering torch that shone with ominous light.   
Bring him down, Legolas! Aragorn cried. _Dago hon_!  
Two more arrows found their mark, but the dying creature refused to fall.  
Elven hearts are not easily moved to frustration, so it was with detached resignation that Legolas watched his quarry stagger from view into a low culvert in the wall beneath their feet. He did not know what the burning brand portended, but he braced himself. The Deeping Wall exploded. With a shattering roar, huge slabs flew in all directions, and the parapet vanished almost to where he stood. Off to his right, Legolas saw the Ranger fall and strike hard on the stony yard far below.  
Gimli's anguished shout on the opposite side of the breach spoke for both of them.  
The dwarf simply hurled himself down from the battlements, even as the ruins of the wall came thundering back to earth along with broken men, bits of orc, armor, stone, wood and flame. The unleashed stream concealed both dwarf and man from Legolas' eyes. Through it he could see the dark heaving shapes of orcs flinging themselves against the current, most falling and being carried away, but the strongest beginning to pour through the wall. Then Legolas spotted the swing of Gimli's axe. The dwarf was all but submerged, wading in water and foes surging around him, keeping them back from the spot where the man had fallen. Aragorn's luck still held; dazed but alive he was staggering to his knees.  
An orc-shield skittered past Legolas' feet towards the head of the stairway plunging down to the breach. He leapt and rode it down, sending arrows into the tumult around his friends. Living orcs were beaten back by the bodies of his victims, and at the bottom he kicked the shield into the throat of one more. To his right, Aragorn flung himself onto higher ground and turned to face the onslaught. Elf-arrows whistled around him, finding many marks in the tide of orcs spilling through the wall. But Gimli had not followed him, and Legolas had his hands full with Uruk-hai at the foot of the stairs. The Ranger mustered the elves behind him for a counter-charge and met the influx of enemies head on, fighting his way to the side of the hard-pressed dwarf. Elves and Uruks clashed together in the rain, amidst the churning stream, on the ruins of the wall that was already lost. There was blood in the water. Bodies were falling down from above. This only spurred the elves to greater fury, battling with the cold swift precision of the first-born. But they were being pushed back, foot by foot, and every instant they were more outnumbered. Horns from the citadel sounded the retreat.  
Gimli and Aragorn hewed a route towards the keep, making an opening for the Galadrim. Legolas, retreating in their wake, picked off what targets he could from the line of orcs swarming the stairs of the broken wall. He was running out of arrows. Aragorn was calling urgently up to Haldir, who was covering for his own people and had not yet left the battlements. _Nan barad! Haldir, nan barad_! Some of the elves were fighting their way down to the garth. Others, hemmed in, simply jumped from the heights to the Deep where the Uruk-hai were now pouring in. Out of the corner of his eye Legolas saw Haldir stagger, pull a cruel-looking knife out of his arm, and swerve towards the stairs just as an orc rose behind him to sink a sword into his back.  
It was a sight the Mirkwood elf would later have time to mourn.  
Unfortunately, Aragorn had also seen it and turned back with a cry. He dove through the ranks of orcs and gained the stairs, hacking and shoving foes over the side as he struggled to reach the captain of the Galadrim.  
Gimli cursed at Legolas' elbow; they had already reached the foot of the broad stairway leading up to the keep. The last of the elves were sprinting past them, some turning to shower arrows as they headed for the upper level and the defenses of the Hornburg. By now the ground between Gimli and Legolas and the wall was a mass of Uruk-hai.  
  
I know. The elf nocked an arrow and held it, covering Aragorn with disciplined concentration; there was no room for error. He had three shafts left. Gimli planted himself at the elf's knees on the step below and added a few more orcs to his own score. For the moment, most of the Uruk-hai before them were dispatching the gravely wounded or scaling the wall to clear the few remaining defenders.  
Aragorn had reached the dying captain. He stooped and pulled Haldir across his knees, oblivious to Théoden shouting down to him from the bailey. Gimli was roaring out numbers while he slew. There now were none left alive in the garth save enemies, and these were beginning to converge upon the unlikely pair at the foot of the keep's stairs, seeing new sport. For Legolas, however, none of this mattered. His mind and instincts were committed solely to the space around Aragorn, its radius defined by the length of one orc arm plus one sword. An Uruk-hai bounding over the uppermost three steps dropped with an arrow through its neck, and another coming over the parapet fell from sight with a gurgling cry. Legolas nocked his last arrow.  
There were two or three elves left upon the wall, the small one among them, selling their lives as dearly as they could. But it would take a score of archers with full quivers to gain them any chance of escape, and there was nothing he could do for them. Enemies were pouring through the breach, up the stairs, over the parapet from ladders and siege towers. Gimli was still keeping them at bay— he was not shouting his count any longer— but any moment they would be overwhelmed. So would Aragorn. Legolas patiently held the feathers against his lips, waiting until the last instant to select his target from among far too many.  
_Aragorn, Tolo dad. I gaim aran ú-nestathar chery bain._*  
Aragorn looked over the edge, seized the top of a ladder, and rode it down with a frenzied cry, crushing orcs below him as he came down. Legolas loosed his final arrow into the fray above, then unsheathed knives and joined Gimli in clearing a path for him. The three with the dwarf last of all raced for the Hornburg, up the long stairs, along the narrow parapet clinging to the cliff at the base of the tower, and into the bailey. Doors and portcullis slammed down behind them, sealing the outer ring-wall.  
The three hunters exchanged grim glances.  
Not lightly do the leaves of Lórien fall, Legolas murmured, echoing something the Ranger had said during their long travels together.  
There was a crash of breaking wood below them, and the stones beneath their feet shuddered. The causeway-gate was giving way. Aragorn gave a shout and charged down to the lower level, the courtyard behind the gate, where Théoden's spearmen were doing all within their power to fend off the orcs from the splintered beams.  
Gimli grumbled under his breath. Curse _his_ luck; you rabbits nearly left me behind back there.  
The key is breathing, Legolas told him.  
The dwarf snorted and headed after Aragorn.   
When the elf heard the Dúnedan's offer to take a stand before the gate until men could brace it, Legolas turned back to join the other defenders on the parapet overlooking the causeway. His friends would need a means back inside unless they meant to stand before the doors until they were slain. And if that was their intent, he would need a way down to them.  
While searching for a stout rope, Legolas finally remembered where he had last glimpsed the woman on the wall.  
It had been the Fellowship's first night in the hidden heart of Lórien. She had been perched in the graceful spiral of a hanging staircase that was cradled in the branches of a mallorn tree on the far side of the glade. Her knees were tucked against herself, arms and elven-cloak draped loosely around them; her face was in shadow. Every line of her body seemed to melt into the curve of the railings and the tree behind her, and if she'd had more height and grace, he might have mistaken her for one of the austere figures carved in wood that were suspended here and there in the forest. She had been leaning forward, listening to the lament for Mithrandir as if she were breathing it, utterly engrossed in the haunting echoes of the singing trees. While he was taking note of her, she had suddenly glanced down as if searching for something, and he'd caught the glint of blue eyes. At the time he had taken her for an elf-maid. Now he had strange doubts.  
They did not matter any longer.  
Aragorn and Gimli were fighting for their lives some twenty feet below him, and his quiver was spent. Orcs were falling off the causeway on every side, and even the fighting Uruk-hai, monstrous giants compared to the goblins they had dealt with in the past, were loathe to close with the enraged dwarf and grim-handed son of kings. Down in the Coomb itself, Legolas could see heavy machines being wheeled forward, ballistas carrying giant iron hooks instead of bolts, and behind them the orcs were assembling siege-towers on the ground. The screams of enemies and the dying hammered the walls like great fists. Yet some men still lived to defend the Hornburg, and his task was keeping it that way.  
He needed more arrows.  
  
*_(Aragorn, come down. The hands of a king will not heal all wounds.) _  



	4. BE ROSS BO OROD Like rain on the mtn

And yet all efforts were vain. Gimli and Aragorn had slain dozens before the gates were sealed. Legolas had hauled them to safety over the battlements, but that safety was short-lived. Uruk-hai filled the Deep, they covered the wall, and ladders and grappling hooks were thudding against the ramparts. Some overshot their mark and fell into the bailey, crashing down like the toss-stones of mountain giants, while others slammed into men and boys, striking them from the parapet with deadly force. Legolas, having gleaned damp arrows from the quiver of a slain archer, stood over the gate adding his share to the dwindling rain of bolts and spears. He managed to sever a cable that was being used to pull up one of the orc-laden siege-towers. But there were three others still coming when that one crashed full-length across the enemy host below, and in spite of the ragged cheer from the men on the ramparts, he might just have well have tried to harvest a field with a fishhook. Scant minutes later, the causeway gate had burst asunder, orcs were pouring over the battlements, and the last living defenders were racing for the doors to the inner keep. Legolas spent the dead man's arrows covering their retreat.  
So elves and men were bottled up in six-foot walls of stone. There was no way out of the inner keep and tower save through the caves, and from them only a few narrow tunnels wormed their way back into the hills. Such routes afforded scant hope, for there was little chance the orcs would not follow any who fled, once the doors of the Hornburg had given way. Théoden's warriors set spears and swords aside and did their best to brace this final barrier. Elven archers stood behind them with bows trained between their shoulders, watching for any crack in the straining wood. Again and again, the doors that Aragorn had struggled to push open on his return now shuddered and boomed with the heavy blows of unseen enemies. The one ray of hope left was that the stairs and inner ring wall of the bailey thwarted the use of a battering ram in its narrow confines. Yet such contrivances of men could only delay, not deny the siege's outcome. Helm's Deep had been built as stoutly as the mountain on which it stood, but even the land could not hold back the sea when the seas rose.  
At such an hour men despaired, and even the hearts of elves were grim and cold. Aragorn and Théoden and what few of the king's household remained stood at the back of the darkened hall taking counsel, but there was little to debate. The king's mind was already half with his son. He had come this far on love for his people, and now he could no longer pretend that he could defend them.  
Ride out with me, Aragorn was urging, his voice clear and certain even over the din of the assault. Ride out to meet them! Now is the hour for the Eorlingas to come forth behind the banner of their king. What was it you told me? At least we shall make such an end as may be worth a song, if any are left to sing of it.' His gaze shifted to the gray light filtering down through high narrow window-slits over the doors. Dawn was coming on.  
Legolas straightened, the fierce resistance of his bowstring suddenly nothing in his hands. It was not his friend he heard speaking, but a lord of men. No, not only a leader, but an archer, with the whole of the Hornburg suddenly become for him a bow. Would Théoden let himself be pushed by the Ranger this time?  
If any are left, Théoden echoed under his breath, quietly enough that perhaps only elves could hear it.  
Somewhere beneath their feet were caves of breathtaking beauty, Gimli had said, glittering with hundreds of torches that played across silver-flecked stone pillars and wide pools of water. Those pools had been mirror-still since the world began, but they must have trembled often during the long night, when even the bones of the Hornburg shook. Whether or not their king rode forth, hundreds of women and children down there would soon die, even those with swords like Éowyn, listening to every thud and groan above them with grim helplessness. Outside the bodies of their kin and loved ones, many old or far too young, were piled among the corpses of enemies. The orcs would be hacking the bodies of the elves they hated. A few riders flying in the face of a storm would be worth little to any of these victims.  
Legolas kept his eyes on the doors. The men had braced and buttressed them with long wooden benches and tables from the feast-hall, but between the gaps of makeshift beams, he could see cracks getting longer and wider. Soon his arrows would have a mark. There was a scrape at his elbow and the dwarf's hoarse breathing; Gimli had returned from sharpening his axe.  
He's right, my lord, the dwarf said stoutly. Better to meet them head-on than to be caught like an old badger in a trap.  
Will you join the last ride of the Eorlingas, Master Dwarf? the king asked. His men exchanged glances, shifted their feet.  
There was a comfortingly familiar clink as Gimli patted his favored weapon. No, but leave me a few orcs for sport, if you've any to spare. I will follow on foot, where I have room to swing my axe.  
Théoden raised his chin, following Aragorn's gaze towards the high window. Nay, Gimli son of Glóin, the king said softly. I have a different task for you. 

The doors broke and fell. Guttural cries of pent-up rage muffled the death-rattle of tortured wood and stone. The orcs burst into the king's hall. At the far end waited Théoden, Aragorn, Legolas, Gamling and the chiefs of Edoras, all of them mounted on horses that fretted and stamped.  
_Forth Eorlingas!_  
Straight through the mass of astonished orcs they galloped, out into the bailey where the black banners of Saruman flapped over walls that no other foe had passed, down the wide stairs to the splintered gate and out, and into the column of orcs streaming up the causeway. The riders swept aside those in their path, slew and slew, although their swords made barely a dent in the much-thinned but still vast sea of orcs. Down the causeway they rode, seeking nothing save deaths well-earned. As Théoden led the charge, high above in the top of the tower, the ancient horn of Helm Hammerhand boomed out in a growing swell of thunder. Gimli was making the mountains sing a somber dirge for the last ride of the Rohirrim. Some of the orc-companies actually gave ground, not just before the ire of cornered prey suddenly turning upon its attacker, but fearing the horn itself. _Helm! Helm is arisen!_ called the Rohirrim inside and outside of the keep. High overhead, the peaks of the mountains were cutting through the last wisps of cloud from the previous night's storm.  
Yet the banner of the king did not founder, and few deaths came to those who followed it. The causeway and the Deeping Coomb lay in gray shadow, but high above on the mountain's limb a white rider was silhouetted against the pale golden dawn. Gandalf had returned. With him were Éomer and Erkenbrand and all the mounted warriors of the Third Mark and the Westfold. With an answering shout they poured down like a river unleashed, sweeping upon the black host. Orcs cowered in the blinding light of the Grey Pilgrim, grey no longer. Caught between the vice of Théoden and Gandalf, Éomer and Aragorn, those orcs who were not slain by sword and spear were trampled flat.  
Helm's Deep had held.  
  
In the light of a day few hoped to see, the survivors searched for those who had not. Éomer's men were relieving the sentries. The night's garrison had retired to the keep to sleep, bind wounds, or die in the arms of loved ones in the caves below. The old king slept in the Hornburg, his dreams less troubled than they had been in years, despite the blood of his people on the stones outside. Aragorn and even Gimli had gone down to well-earned rest.   
Legolas was walking on the ruined battlements, gathering arrows and looking for elves. Most of the work of clearing away the wreckage was being done by the women of Rohan. He saw few who wept openly as they bore the dead away one by one. He crossed the garth slowly, picking his way around rubble, discarded weapons and missiles, and hideous twisted forms of orcs. Few but fair among them were strewn his own folk, foresters who but for last night might have lived all the ages of the world. Many had been mangled, hacked, half-eaten in the brief time that orcs had gained this ground. The grievous sight of them lodged itself somewhere in Legolas' heart and spread out within him, cool sorrow becoming a part of his bones.   
The living Galadrim were here also, somberly gathering up their comrades. Some of the women were helping, although they gave their guests silent and fearful glances. The women bore away weapons, armor, what orcs they could move, and any men that had fallen from the keep's walls high above, making room for the elves but careful not to touch them. Legolas favored those he passed with a kind glance.  
He began to sing quietly when he reached the small company of elves searching the ruins of the Deeping Wall. Humans in the garth below halted where they were, dazed, and cast about for the source. Legolas' folk nodded to him as he came among them, some taking up the lament. Song born in starlight before the rising of the sun now rose from the Deep, and the Hornburg shivered with a music very different from that of horns.   
One by one Lórien's fallen were found and borne away on the cloaks of their comrades. Haldir was discovered last of all, and only when a great orc-banner and a few shields had been flung down from the wall. He lay full-length along the groove of the parapet's wall, with eyes closed and hands folded over his sword; a cloak from one of his fallen neighbors had been cast over him. Nothing marred him but the wounds that had killed him. Timdaur, the grim elf who now led the elves in Haldir's place, questioned everyone closely, but no one knew who had done this. Aragorn had barely fled in time, as Legolas well knew, and he and his two friends had been the last to reach the keep alive.   
It was a grievous moment, for Rúmil Haldir's younger brother had come with them, and knelt a long time beside his sibling. The whisper of Haldir's name and then a hush spread out across the Deep, when the Galadrim raised their leader and began to descend the stairs. Rúmil led them. Legolas and Timdaur walked behind. But as they stepped around an orc with one of his own arrows buried in the shoulder-joint, Legolas remembered something. Number thirty-five, his last Lórien-arrow.  
he whispered. _Aphadathon— nad nu hen._  
The other elf paused and glanced down at the massive Uruk sprawled face-first in the act of coming over the parapet. He nodded to Legolas silently and left him there. 

*_(I'll follow— something's under this.)_


	5. FIRIEL TIRN ED Firiel looked out

Legolas twisted the arrow free and studied the Uruk-hai sprawled over the battlement with the dispassionate scrutiny of a hunter sizing up a carcass to be butchered. A goblin he could throw one-handed, but the creatures of Saruman were of a different order from the vermin of the mountains. And he did not dare simply roll it aside.   
Crouching, the elf began to work his hands under its bulk, seeking leverage. An older woman hurried over to offer what help she could, supporting some of the weight until he could get a knee under the brute's chest and and heave upwards. It tipped over the parapet with a rattle of armor, striking the base of the wall with a distant crash which echoed the din of the previous night's battle. The sound also muffled the gasp of his impromptu helper when she glanced down and caught sight of the fighter who had been pinned beneath it.  
The slight figure was pressed face-first against the joint of the wall and walkway, left arm flung over her head, huddled like a mouse cowering under a root when the hawk flies past. Her sword, bearing the subtle curves and grace of elven blades though lacking decoration or device, lay under her right elbow. Her mail was in a sorry state, crusted with gore from the battle, and black blood stiffened the gray cloak of the Galadrim, twin to the one Legolas wore. Her pale matted hair spilled out from thick braids once rolled beneath the rim of her helm, now falling in an unkempt mass around her ears and hiding them. Even so, it did not take an expert eye to see she was mortal pewter, not elvish silver: she was lithe but not lean, sturdy and compact in her build; and her features were neat yet a little too broad to be called even by humans who didn't know the true meaning of the term.   
The gray-haired woman knelt beside her, restrained in her dismay as she looked the stranger over. She would not touch the girl until Legolas nodded permission. She handled the elven-mail as little as possible, nor was she merely trying to avoid the orc's foul blood, for her frock and arms already had a few black smears from the morning's work. When she turned the young woman over, she was due for another shock. The opaque glance she levelled in the elf's direction was almost accusatory. Silently, the elder worked the clasp of the girl's cloak open, resting fingertips against the side of her neck. The woman's lips pressed together into a thin line. With gentle efficiency, she began to gather the fallen fighter's cloak around her. Legolas sighed and laid a long hand across one dirt-stained cheek.   
he said sharply.  
Startled, the one he had addressed yanked her hands away. She watched intently as the elf probed for tangible signs of injury, cradling the smaller woman's head and rocking it gently from side to side, searching his way down her spine, testing ribs with his fingers as best he could through scale mail. Her face was cool, but not as cold as the stones on which she lay. He frowned, pondering. This seemed a small matter for Aragorn, but he did not wish to disturb the Ranger after so many toils. Hearing her shallow breaths change from faint to certain, Legolas realized there might be no need after all. He opened his hand in a mute request towards the waterskin the older woman was carrying.  
Brows knitting, she readily handed it across. Listening carefully, Legolas began to lave the stranger's neck and throat, feeling the air grow chill as the wind from the mountains brushed against his wet fingers. Recalling the glimpse from that night in Lórien, as he dabbed the blood and grime away, Legolas decided to try another remedy that had nothing to do with herb-lore. He cast his mind back to an old ballad of Beleriand which the wood-elves still sang along the northern fences of his father's realm. 

** Ir geil thinner Fíriel tirn-ed:  
I fuin thind gwannol.  
I aurlinn, aew goll, palan-  
Nallant gaun lim a maeg.  
Gelaidh dhuir, minuial 'ael   
In emlin gliriel.  
Gwaew athrant, i ring a lain  
Trî laiss dhyll reniant.**

_Firiel looked out at three o clock;  
the grey night was going;  
far away a golden cock  
clear and shrill was crowing.  
The trees were dark, and the dawn pale,  
the waking birds were cheeping.  
a wind moved cool and frail  
through dim leaves creeping._

**Na chenneth tirn i 'lîn 'alol  
Al lû calad and 'ael  
Bo talf a lass; bo thâr ennas  
I vîdh vith hilivren.  
Or phain tail thín fain athranner  
A dad bendrath tinner,  
Revianner cabel trî thâr  
I garel pân 'wing mîdh.**

_She watched the gleam at window grow  
til the long light was shimmering  
on land and leaf, on grass below  
grey dew was glimmering.  
Over the floor her white feet crept,  
down the stair they twinkled  
through the grass they dancing stepped  
all with dew besprinkled._

**Taeg hammad thín gâr viriath;  
Norn e dad i hîr.  
Be dulu garel delch dathren  
A tirn i nen thinnol.  
Heledir dannant dad be harn  
Vi aglar thlûn dannol...**

_Her gown had jewels upon its hem,  
as she ran down to the river  
and leaned upon a willow-stem  
and watched the water quiver.  
A kingfisher plunged down like a stone  
in a blue flash falling..._

His hunch proved true; the stranger's breathing began to quicken at the sound of his voice. Legolas stopped when he noticed that her eyes were squeezed shut, no longer simply closed. She gave a quiet sigh when he fell silent.  
she muttered. Well, at least the music's good.  
The old woman beside him stirred like a sleepwalker when the girl spoke.  
He chuckled. You are somewhat astray, Lady. That king's hall lies many leagues away.  
There was a glitter beneath her eyelashes; she was peering at the elf as if trying to make out a falcon's silhouette against the sun. When the other woman started to reach around her to help her up, she shook her head emphatically.  
Can you move? he asked, echoing the concern of the human woman beside him.  
The stranger countered his question with a hoarse whisper. Haldir? _Gwaith nín_?  
Bemused by her choice of words, Legolas replied, Your people' have taken him down to the citadel. He is defiled by no hands, thanks to yours.  
Mortal as they are. A wistful smile touched the corners of her lips. It was just as well he had elven-hearing, for her voice was nearly as faint as her breath. Yet Legolas had the sense that this was due more to habit than hurt. There was something disconcertingly familiar about her phrasing.   
_Im law charnannen_, she answered belatedly.  
She is unhurt, he echoed, translating for the older woman who was watching this exchange. The local paused, eying him doubtfully, then inclined her head with a ironic smile that was far more intelligible than the muddled curtsey she gave him before returning to her chores. She left the waterskin lying where he had set it down.   
On the other surviving portion of the wall, murmurs between a few other women drifted across the gap, and Legolas caught Éowyn's name peppering the conversation. Evidently his discovery had not gone unnoticed.  
The young swordswoman, meanwhile, had braced an elbow against the stones and pushed herself to a sitting position, squinting and shielding her eyes with a fist as she scanned the blood-spattered parapet where Haldir had fallen. Nearby was a heap of chipped swords, helms, quivers and ripped cloaks, gilded bows whose graceful sweeping horns were twisted or snapped, and the bronze leaves of elven-mail that lay scattered like shed scales of dragons, glittering in the sun. The girl's shoulders drooped. Her face was quiet, but it was the calm of a soul struggling to keep pain at arm's length.  
Legolas held the waterskin out to her.  
She turned her head and favored him with a surprised smile. Why, I should hide under orcs more often. She took it and drank sparingly, as if conserving it for a journey. Then her gaze drifted over the wreckage of the battle, out across the Coomb and back to the Deep, up to the tower shining like a tall spur of flint in the pale sun. Nothing down here was untouched by the debris from the explosion and the bodies and weapons of the fallen, but above the keep the mountains sparkled, massive and snow-capped and untroubled by the goings-on at their knees. she said, tucking a knee against herself, What was the final count?  
Legolas regarded her steadily. Helm's Deep stands. But we lost—   
She drew a sharp breath and held up her hands to fend off his answer. Too many, I know. I wasn't speaking of that.  
The elf tilted his head. What, then?  
She leaned towards the inner side of the wall, miming with a finger the soaring flight of an arrow coming up from below and sailing past her shoulder. She gave him a shrewd look. I trust the prince bested the dwarf.  
Forty-one and forty-two, he replied, amused. I lost.  
Blue eyes flew open at the elf's admission. Strange wizardry! she rasped. Her features softened. Ah, but he is Gimli Lockbearer, isn't he? _Gulaur daur vin ent Galadriel_.*   
Legolas shrugged, hopping to his feet with a faint rattle of arrows at his shoulder. My bow is also a gift of the Lady.   
The small woman pursed her lips. she insisted doggedly, I know I should not gainsay my betters, but I fear you have miscounted. With that, she set a hand upon the wall and hauled herself to her feet with less grace. But I am sure Thranduil's son has more important responsibilities than answering the questions of a _fíriel_ who overslept. Thank you, _caun fael_, for fetching me the sun.   
He raised an eyebrow. It was no trouble, my lady. But as for answers, is that really your name?  
She reddened. Oh! No, it's Haleth. But I wasn't mocking your singing, my lord. That's what the Galadhrim call me.   
He studied her thoughtfully. I see. Well, Haleth, I am going down to join them, if you care to follow.  
she paused, looked over her shoulder. She trailed off as her gaze fell upon the castoffs of Lórien, waiting to be carted away like common refuse. Haleth struggled to find another smile. They will need their little _fíriel_ to straighten and sort arrows, as always. But I think I will drink the sun for a while first, unless our orders are to march soon.   
Not that I have heard. Legolas observed that in spite of the lightness of her speech, there were tears at war with her eyes, and that she was in danger of losing the battle. Having come to know some of the peculiarities of mortal pride, the elf simply nodded a polite farewell and headed for the stairs.   
As he descended, he saw her turn and pace slowly towards the jumbled pile. The woman stooped, took up a long arrow whose swan-feathers gleamed like the snow on the mountains, and turned it slowly in her fingers, head bowed. Just as he dropped below the level of the parapet, a soft elvish prayer drifted down to him, jerking his memory back to the eaves of Fangorn and that moment when it seemed that he and his companions had doubly failed, first losing Boromir, and then the hobbits they had chased halfway across Rohan to save.  
_Hiro hyn hîdh vi Valannor_.**   
With those words, at last, the elf realized what it was about Haleth's speech that had been nagging at him. Her voice matched her face: it was the plain, broad accent of Rhovanion, spoken daily in the open-air markets of Dale and the feast-halls of the Beornings. The rhythm of her phrasing, however, was markedly elvish, and it spilled over even into the common tongue. It was not Mirkwood's passionate beat nor the rolling eloquence of Imladris. Like yarn from a spinning wheel, her words unfolded at the stately pace of Lórien, whose inhabitants lived and spoke in a different world. It was like the stalking of a kitten, unconsciously imitating the measured footfalls of a lion. 

_*(Great is the virtue in the gifts of Galadriel) _

_**(Let them find peace in Valinor.)_

_Note: The song is actually my translation of part of a poem by Tolkien, The Last Ship however, I had to change the wording in places ("looked out as the stars faded" instead of "three o' clock," e.g.) where our limited Elvish vocabulary is lacking, or where the meter would have gotten so cumbersome the Elvish couldn't be sung.  
_

A few hours later, Legolas sat upon a stack of shields in the armory, reporting to Aragorn all that he had noted in the battle and after. Timdaur was there too, standing mutely by the door with arms folded. The new captain was a very different sort of elf from Haldir, grim and wary like Legolas' own father; his hair was silver and his features were sharp and lean as the prow of a ship. Gimli, meanwhile, was quite unaware how much irritation he was causing their guest, sitting propped in a corner fine-tuning his axe with a whetstone. Aragorn slouched by a rack of spears facing his friends.  
... and I guess they have some two thousands all told, including Éomer's men, Legolas concluded.  
Gimli whistled. I thought Éomer brought two thousand with him! Gandalf herded them back here none too soon!  
Aragorn took a long draw from his pipe as he digested Legolas' account and Timdaur's even more painful news: a fifth of the Galadhrim remained. And we cannot take even two thousand, for the people of Rohan still need a garrison.  
Legolas was silent, although he suspected that any garrison they could muster would not be enough to defend the Hornburg against another attack.   
Gimli looked up from his axe. Do you think Rohan will ride to Gondor's aid?   
Aragorn raised his head like a horse straining at the chalk-line before a race. They knew he yearned to be in Minas Tirith already, to prove or fail all the hopes that had been invested in him. Théoden will ride, he said. The muster at Edoras has already begun. But it will take many days for the Riddermark to set out in force.   
They say Gondor is not yet besieged, the dwarf pointed out gruffly.  
Aragorn smiled. I cannot see the White City from here, Gimli. But the beacon-fires are not yet lit. There is hope. He turned to Timdaur, expression sobering again. So that is where we stand, my lord. You now know the mettle of men, and we know beyond all dread what sacrifice the Wood has given to secure the muster of Rohan. It may well be the arrow that finds the chink in Sauron's strategies. If you mean to return home and look to Lórien's defenses, you will go with our deepest gratitude. I wish I could do or say more.  
Timdaur shook his head, face grave as one of the carved faces of the Argonath. Nay, Lord Aragorn; the Alliance's obligation is not dissolved by a single skirmish. Sauron must be defeated for all Ages, and it is for you to lead this struggle. You need weapons that will not break. Haldir understood this, as do I.  
Gimli let out a quiet huff of respect.  
Aragorn for his part did not waste more time with empty courtesies. Very well. Do any more elf-hosts come from the Wood or Rivendell?  
Lord Elrond and the Lady were taking thought to that when we marched, stated Timdaur, but I do not know the issue of their counsel.  
The Ranger rubbed a finger over the white tree embossed upon the vambrace he had kept as a memento of Boromir. I do not think horses can be found for all of you, although I know the Riddermark will provide you with every one they have.  
The elf nodded. Then we will take what horses the Rohirrim can spare, and the rest under Rúmil will bear our wounded back to Lórien ere the lands are closed against us.  
Aragorn sought his eyes. Please tell him this. For what little it is worth, his brother's name is the first among elves to be woven into the songs of this land, and will be remembered as long as Rohan stands.  
Timdaur bowed.  
When he had departed, Aragorn turned back to his friends. Gandalf means to pay a visit to Saruman before we take the road east.  
Is that wise? Gimli asked, astonished. Does he think Isengard emptied of every orc? And will Sauron wait while we toss pebbles at the walls of Orthanc?  
Legolas said nothing, but the dwarf clearly echoed the elf's thought. He fixed keen eyes upon the man.  
Gandalf has some errand there, and bade me bring the king. I am sure there is good reason. Aragorn closed his fist tightly over his sword-hilt.  
There are the hobbits, Legolas observed quietly.  
Gandalf said they were safe, said Gimli doubtfully, although he did not say how or where.  
That is an answer I would like before we leave this land, the elf murmured.  
And I, said Aragorn. but for them we dare not tarry. Still, Gandalf is right: we must know what strength Isengard has left, before we abandon Rohan to its fate. Théoden must order his realm as best he can ere he departs. And it is better that we ride east in firm knowledge, at least, of the dangers at one end of the road.   



	6. NORO LIM! NORO LIM! Run away, run away

**Wait! No, It Can't Be!**

And here is where the quality writers who are not daunted by the Jacksonesque liberties I have taken with Tolkien's masterpiece will recoil in horror. Yes, _she_ is in this story, or at least, in parts of it, and if your phobia of Mary Sue is particularly violent, you may want to go away for the next two chapters and pick up with the Paths of the Dead (although the next two chapters also have parts which have nothing to do with her).

My goal is threefold. One, Tolkien is short on good female characters, and especially the less epic/archetypical ones. I wanted someone hobbit-like in abilities and temperament, the small hands who do things they must while the eyes of the great are elsewhere. Two, I have a bone to pick with Tolkien: his mortal/elf pairings always involve great male heroes and the greatest elf women sacrificing themselves for their true loves. I would like to bring to life the Firiel in his lesser-known writings, the one whom the elves befriend, the one who revisits the elf/mortal question without resolving it. Three, obviously, I am venting a little stress release and indulging fangirl syndrome, but hopefully with a minimum of angst, drool, and melodramatic flourishes. 

I detest Mary Sue. I cringe to be publishing anything smacks of Suedom. It is my hope that I've managed to avoid writing one, and instead have simply given female readers an opportunity to identify with a lesser character who is not more powerful than god (Galadriel), not a trophy bride (Arwen), and not a strong yet emotionally crippled Amazon who can only be "whole" once she bags her man (Eowyn). 

However, as has been forceably pointed out by at least one reviewer, I may well fail, leaving the question open -- can anyone ever write this plot without it being drek?

**And on a more positive note...**

Any mistakes in my Sindarin Elvish are my own, but any successes are due to the learned pages of Helge Fauskager (www.ardalambion.com), the Fellowship of the Word-Smiths' excellent website (google for "gwaith"), David Salo's scholarship which produced the Elvish in the films, and most of all the excellent lessons and hands-on critique and instruction provided by the Council of Elrond (www.councilofelrond.com). Accept no substitutes: published books on Elvish are out of date and have been superceded by more recent discoveries; and there's too many websites out there, even classes being taught, with serious mistakes in them.

To the worthies I have named, and above all to my teachers Gildor-Inglorion and Naneth and my study partner Elena, I dedicate whatever good there is in this story. To those who wilfully set themselves up as authorities on Elvish and teach courses like they know what they're talking about, misleading a whole generation of Tolkien fans, I dedicate whatever traces of Mary Sue have slipped past my flyswatter.

now on with the show... 


	7. AN I ERYN VALTHEN For the Golden Wood

They found the answer to this and much else in Isengard, but as Gimli had said they could not tarry long. The parley with Saruman had gone as well as could be hoped. The Three Hunters had finally overtaken their quarry; the hobbits had weathered their ordeal with the orcs better than humans might in such circumstances. King Théoden had also learned of allies he did not know existed: the ancient guardians of the forest, roused to wrath against Isengard's furnaces. The ents, left out of all his designs, had proved to be Saruman's undoing. They had torn through his outer defenses like the sea through a sandcastle, flooding the ring of Isengard with the river it was named for, and slaying every orc. They would have slain him too, but the tower of Orthanc had withstood even their rootlike fingers and toes, which could crack ordinary stone in minutes. All the surround was reduced to rubble, steaming and bubbling under lingering waters; ents kept patient vigil on the tower that was Saruman's self-chosen prison. Théoden could ride to Gondor with assurance that no threat was left from that quarter.

First, however, he and his company were returning to the Hornburg. They had camped briefly in the foothills south of Isengard, but near midnight their slumber was broken by the evil voices of wraiths skimming the treetops, flying towards Orthanc. Doubtless they were seeking tidings of Rohan's defeat. Very soon, the Dark Lord would realize that one of his claws had snapped. Gandalf had gone immediately and in haste, taking one of the hobbits with him; as so often the wizard was racing towards peril on the wings of the storm. Théoden would follow him east as soon as Rohan's strength could be mustered, accompanied by Aragorn and the elves of Lórien. 

The tides of the world were converging upon the White City. Those who knew Minas Tirith could not help but remember its perilous position, a spur of defiance at the far end of the mountains from Helm's Deep, separated from Mordor's towering gray crags by a river and fifteen leagues, or a few miles at most if the enemy gained the opposite shore.

Aragorn confided to his friends as they jogged near the king, I wish I were truly Thorongil, as they used to call me.

What's that? Gimli grumbled, bouncing along behind the elf with a stout grip on the back of the saddle. You pick up nicknames and elf-trinkets like a raven lining his nest.

The elf spoke clearly over the swish of wind. The Eagle of the Star. What need have you for him?

That I might have friendship with eagles. Dim shapes of the world rushed past them, and all was bounding movement as they tore across the Gap, but the man's eyes remained still and fixed on the unbroken silhouette of mountain peaks stretching eastward. Alas, only Gandalf can call the wind-lords at need. 

There is time, Legolas reassured him, or Mithrandir would not have risked dabbling his toes in the puddles of Isengard.

Merry was riding before Aragorn, and had been listening eagerly to Gimli's tales of their adventures in Rohan, at least until he nodded off in the saddle. Aragorn had a hand on his shoulder to keep him from slipping. Now the hobbit stirred awake as his friends' voices floated around him. How far is it to Minas Tirith? he asked anxiously.

The man sighed. Over a week's ride, although Gandalf and Pippin may reach it sooner on Shadowfax. 

Meanwhile, Théoden had been deep in conversation with Éomer since they had crossed the Fords of Isen in the coldest hour of the night. Ten days ago, many men of Rohan had perished there in battle, while their king sat withered and witless in Edoras under the insidious leechcraft of a mole in the pay of Saruman. It was that battle which had cost the king's son his life. So when the Rohirrim passed the circle of spears and the mound of Théodred's fallen warriors, although their need for haste was great, the king had halted in the darkness with his riders gathered around him. And yet Saruman lives, Théoden had said finally, rousing himself. Afterwards he had spoken little, pressing forward with a pace that was grueling even for younger men.

Listening to his captains tell him of the battle at the fords, Théoden had been too preoccupied to notice his guests for some while. But abruptly he broke in upon the conversation between Aragorn and his companions. The king turned his head, regarding the the ranger warily. There was a foreigner by that name in Rohan when I was a lad, and he served my father for a while. Then he disappeared. Afterwards rumor came that he had won great renown away south in Gondor, beating back the pirates of Umbar.

I have heard those rumors, my lord. Aragorn's teeth flashed in a crooked grin. However, just as abruptly, his smile vanished. Legolas, what is it? 

The elf was sitting straight and tall in the saddle, keen eyes scanning the mountains ahead of them as if searching for eagles. 

Dreaming with his eyes open again, the dwarf muttered at the elf's shoulder. 

I do not know, replied Legolas thoughtfully. It is like smoke, but it does not rise, and it fills the Deeping Coomb.

The king laid a hand on his sword-hilt, and Éomer on his right rose in the stirrups, straining in vain to make out a hint of whatever Legolas had seen.

Even as the elf spoke, from afar came a sound more felt than heard, a low thrum that beat on their ears like air through a bird's wings. It was so faint that, had the sound not been seared forever into their memories by that fateful dawn two days ago, few would have recognized the horn of Helm Hammerhand rippling across the wide plains of Rohan. The Rohirrim cried out in dismay. 

Aragorn nudged Brego a few paces forward and turned into the king's path. Wait, my lord. I do not think it is the fume of battle.

The riders muttered to one another, not all of them looking south. It was the third time that the ragged stranger had implicitly challenged their king, and although he had proved his worth in more than arms at Helm's Deep, even Éomer was looking at him somewhat askance. 

Legolas declared, oblivious to the jostlings of men. His eyes shone. It is a gray fog, as if the mist of the forests were spilling out into the world. There are shapes moving within it, and they are tall.

exclaimed Merry. That's the Huorns, Strider, just as I was telling you! They are the wild woods that Treebeard warned us about. 

Théoden's hands relaxed upon his reins, and he gazed out across the gray lands before them. Aragorn dropped back to his former position on the king's left side, opposite Éomer.

More sorcery, the old king muttered. And why? Did Gandalf not say the tree-shepherds take little interest in the affairs of men?

Aragorn concurred, resting his fingers in Merry's hair, but I think their eyes have been opened by others. They are watching your northern borders now, Théoden, not just for the sake of the trees. In this case, however, it is not your affairs they are minding, but those of the Golden Wood.

Théoden followed the ranger's gaze to the aloof elven captain riding in the second rank. Timdaur had come with them to witness the parley with their enemy on behalf of Lórien, but had not said a word during the journey. Nor did he speak now. His eyes, however, were fixed upon the same patch of darkness that the Mirkwood elf could see.

The living shadow grew more distinct as night's gloom began to recede. Éomer counselled that they should go a little out of their way to avoid it, but Théoden was in no mood to move aside for anything, certainly not trees within his own borders. Beside the mouth of the Deeping Coomb they drew even with it, and the rushing of wind in branches, the indistinct tramp of huge feet, the groaning and swaying of great trunks were like creaking ships moored in a rising sea. The riders of Théoden reined close together, afraid and awed, as the shrouded host passed them only a few yards away on their left. There were twinkles of light within it, and occasionally a glint of metal, yet it seemed as if an enchantment had fogged their eyes. At most they could make out indistinct forms of broad trunks and striding figures, some giant-sized, others no taller than men.

But Timdaur leapt down and strode to the very edge of the gloom, calling out in a loud voice. _Suilad, Onodrim a Galadhrim! Man siniath_*?

To the wonder of most of the observers, the rushing darkness slowed nearly to a standstill at his hail. Stepping out from the shadows came a mail-clad figure, followed by a slender ent whose white bark gleamed like the moon in the light of the lantern the elf carried. It was Rúmil. He inclined his head to the riders and the king, then turned to address his kinsman in a low voice. 

Éomer came forward, face grave. Rúmil of Lórien. We bid you safe journey, or what safety you can find in our troubled lands. Is there anything you need?

Timdaur spoke in the younger elf's ear, translating, then conveyed the curt reply. Nothing save speed, horsemaster.

Éomer raised his mailed glove in salute and withdrew. Timdaur laid both hands on the fair elf's shoulders in farewell. Then Rúmil stepped back into the shadows with the ent and was lost from sight as the last of the column passed by.

Legolas was watching the trees raptly, and in fact only Gimli's growl kept him from riding headlong into the sweeping shadows. 

Éomer gave Gimli a wry look. Few mortals escape her nets, as I told you, Master Dwarf. Nay, do not reach for your axe! I begin to see why sometimes it is not so ill to be one of the fishes. 

_*(Greetings, Ent-folk and Tree-folk. What tidings?)_

The sun was in the sky, but not yet upon the land when they came back into the vale of the Deeping Coomb. Some of the men cried out and pointed as they drew near the fortress. The wall was being repaired, but its hastily-hewn blocks were the least of the changes that met their astonished eyes.

There was a thin ribbon of silver on the gray cliff behind the Hornburg. Trickles of melting snow were what gave the Deeping Stream its voice, but there had not been a waterfall tumbling down to meet it before, nor a small round lake further back in the Deep on the lefthand side, nor a forest of slender white birches clustered in a wide ring on one of the lower slopes above the lake. When the riders halted with their king a league out from the causeway, they could hear a music of falling water and the untroubled voice of the Deeping Stream, its bed now as clean and clear as if orc feet had never fouled it.

All traces of foes, their armor, their weapons, and their machines of war had vanished from the gravel-flats before the walls. By the foot of the causeway, there was a great mound topped by the spears and banners of Rohan standing like sentinels in the gray dawn. The riders did not sing, as they often did upon returning, nor murmur the names of those who lay beneath the fresh green turves. In silence they rode up the causeway, and the hooves of the horses rang loudly in the stillness. But horns sounded on the battlements, and Théoden entered the fortress amidst great rejoicing, for only now did his people have leisure to celebrate their king's deliverance from the turncoat wizard's curse. 

As they dismounted and retired to their quarters within the keep, his company heard whispers and rumors of a shadow that had come in the night and left the Deep changed. So Théoden had one errand first, before he slept. With Éowyn his niece leading the way up a path that no other human feet had dared tread so far, he climbed to the green shoulder of the mountain where the young forest had sprung up overnight. In its midst was a long grassy mound sprinkled with countless white and yellow flowers. Saplings of birches were planted around and over the great barrow, their new green buds furled in promise of spring. There was no stone or marker to indicate who lay buried there or how many. There was no need. Harpers in the keep were already making songs for the elves as well as for the heroes of Rohan. _Haudh in-Edhil_, they were calling it, using a language few had known three days ago. Some were even calling the smaller mound before the causeway _Haudh en-Firiath_. 

Westu hal, Théoden prayed, staring up at the niphredil that winked in the first shafts of sunlight. And the king wept. 

Legolas was finally resting too, in the manner of his kind. He had scaled the slopes behind the tower for a closer look at the waterfall, and had found an old watch-post tucked against the cliff. It was little more than a ledge of hard-packed earth, damp now from the spray drifting up from the tiny cascade as it came tumbling down. There the elf could survey the keep and the tower, garth and battlements, the Coomb and the Deep, and yet stand alone and undisturbed. He stood in that high place with thought turned inward and outward wandering the paths of dream and open sky. Now and again he sang, and when his voice drifted down to the men in the bailey repairing the gates, their hands and faces would go slack, the weight of heavy timbers forgotten. They whispered to one another that Helm's Deep was under a spell from the Golden Wood.

Legolas' thoughts came back to waking, roused by a sound at his back. Brows furrowed, he turned swiftly and found a small figure seated on a rocky ledge not far below where he stood. It was Haleth. Cheek propped on one arm, which was wrapped around a small spur of rock, she seemed asleep. But he knew she had not been there long.

That is no safe place to doze, he chided.

She stirred and looked up. I might say the same, she observed wryly. But not to an elf.

He looked her over. She wore no mail now, only a fresh gray cloak and the garb of Lórien; he could not see whether she bore any wounds of note worse than a crushing bruise spanning the side of her face. Her hair was combed and gathered at the nape of her neck, still covering her ears; its color was the pale brown of fallen beech-leaves. Humans would call her rounded features , but the stubborn jaw and short nose made her ill-favored by elven standards. And yet there was something of them in her pale blue eyes, which were clear and untroubled now.

I heard you from below, she confessed. I wanted to be sure it was your voice this time, and not some Vala bidding me quit the world.

You were hurt, the elf stated, half a question.

Well, I shall think twice again before using Uruk-hai as a blanket, Haleth said cheerfully. She stretched and straightened, as much as the precarious spot would allow. Somewhat scuffed around the edges, my lord. An elf would not feel these few scrapes and bruises at all.

You are not elf. And I thought you would be returning to Lórien with your company.

Her eyes twinkled. My company are elves. Am I not one of them? You speak in riddles, Prince Thranduilion.

he corrected her.

She raised an eyebrow but acquiesced, or at least attempted it. Laegelas? Surely, you are not—

He chuckled. No, Greenleaf, but as the wood-elves say it.

She looked even more perplexed, but also amused. Now how can I call you that? Haldir's brothers are wroth with me whenever I use their Silvan speech! Not so familiar, _fíriel_, or we shall test your woodcraft by tying you upside-down to the highest tree.'

He searched her face closely, but if there was resentment behind her words he could not see it. You are the riddle.

With a short laugh, she reached up and pulled herself with a hop onto the ledge beside him. No, I carry no blood of Númenor, no great hope of elves and men, she said lightly. The contrast between Lórien's unhurried phrasing and the merriment in her manner was disconcerting. I am not like those heroes with whom you travel, Legolas. I am a daughter of humble men.

Then how do you come to be in the service of Lothlórien? Legolas asked, crouching down on one knee to speak with her. I have not heard that the Galadrim take Men for march-wardens.

Ask the Rohirrim, she replied with a snort. They call my queen a witch. Few mortals escape her nets', they say, and shun the Golden Wood.

Legolas fixed intent eyes on her and waited patiently.

I am a wanderer, my lord, she said at last, yielding to his gaze, a daughter of the woodmen driven out when Dol Guldur's shadow grew again. She grinned her way past some old sorrow, having the rare pleasure of catching an elf by surprise. We fled to Ithilien seeking kin, but found it abandoned save for the watch-wardens of Gondor. My brother joined their company and bade me cower in their city of stone, but that was not to my liking! I knew some of your songs— rough though they are in the woodmen's tongue— and I had caught a glimpse of gold when we took Anduin south. I had never stopped looking over my shoulder. So I kept chasing songs until I found my way there, and in. Among the Galadhrim I have learned how to move, how to use what strength I have.

Legolas listened to her with a part of his mind, the rest bent to watch her closely. It could not be all the tale. How had she earned the right to stay, let alone to serve? And age sat very lightly indeed on one who did not bear the blood of Númenor. But he read no deceit in her eyes. There was, after all, a power in Lórien elves knew but did not name, and he had seen for himself how it held the currents of the outside world at bay.

You learned well, my lady, Legolas observed. But you do not sing.

Haleth ducked her head: he had touched a nerve. I am mortal, she said. My voice betrays me. But I listen.

So I have seen.

The chill wind gusting off the mountains had the space between them for a moment. The elf watched her steadily, and the human stared down at the reflection of the green mound cupped in the lake below. There was birch bark in her hair.

I think, she whispered, letting her guard down for a moment, I was _allowed_ to enter the wood. But only so far, and then I was hard pressed to give a good account of how I came there. She gave an obscure smile. I passed the test.

Legolas' brow relaxed. he said. That answers half the riddle.

She dropped her chin to her hand, watching him shyly out of the corners of her eyes. she murmured after a pause. Have you ever seen the Golden Wood in spring?

The elf shook his head. Long have my folk been sundered from our kin in Lothlórien. Until now I had only seen it through the same songs you have heard.

Oh, but you must, she urged, face suddenly animated. The leaves above are gold, and the leaves on the ground are gold, and the trunks between are almost silver. The yellow blossoms on the boughs catch the clear light like tiny suns. Sometimes at dawn, with the new day shining through them, I catch a glimpse of Laurelin long gone. And when the new buds come— _elo_, little green jewels! I can't tell you of them, for I can't sing.

He smiled. You love the Golden Wood.

'How could I not? Haleth blushed. If Valinor is fairer still, I know why Men may not go there. The joy would kill us.

The elf laughed. And there is the other half of the riddle. Now I see why Celeborn lets you stay.

Her lips twitched with a flash of gratitude. A gift I try to honor.

Legolas rose again and looked north and a little east, shielding his eyes. Far and dim beyond the murky green of Fangorn he could see a hint of fallow gold. I shall have to come there another spring to see your golden nest.

She turned her face up towards him, yearning and only a small hint of envy in her eyes. Do you think it will fade? Sometimes the elves sing of Lórien as if it were already a memory.

I cannot tell. But the world is changing, my lady.

The world always changes! Haleth said fiercely. No season is the same. But spring returns.

Legolas smiled at her stubbornness. You may not carry the blood of Númenor, Haleth, but you carry hope. Do you ride to Gondor?

If any horse can be spared.

Legolas nodded. Then come; let us find one for you. He set a hand on the lip of the rock and went down first. Unbroken she might be, but he had noticed the catch in her movements that two nights' rest had not mended. This small leaf from Lórien would not fall while he was there.


	8. LASTANNEN I ROMRU I heard the horns call

The horses had been turned loose in a hanging valley to graze. A slanting apron of snow hugged the northeastern curve of the slopes that cradled the rolling meadow, watering its rich mats of purple and white alpine flowers. The noonday sun was warm, drawing up spirals of mist from the snow, yet the air had a crisp, biting clarity, carrying the wild spare scent of junipers and stunted firs growing on the slopes above. Here, in this sheltered haven above the keep and the lake, warhorses and farm animals grazed side by side. A few of the most high-spirited were wheeling and churning up the broad ribbon of snow as if cavorting in the shallows fringing a lake. One great lordly shape flashed before them all, gray and shimmering against the gleaming white.

Haleth stopped in her tracks as they stepped out from the birches on the new track leading up into the valley. What is _that_? she asked in a hushed voice.

They call them horses, Legolas deadpanned. There are a good number of them in this country.

she scolded, plucking a twig of birch that was caught behind her ear and chucking it at him. I shall have to start calling you _Laegelalaith_. _(laughing green-elf) _

Legolas sidestepped absently; it was too quiet here for laughter. His name is Shadowfax. I do not know how the line of Nahar came to this country, but I suppose if any men were to earn their trust it would be the Rohirrim. They call such creatures _mearas_. Mithrandir rides him.

A few shouts and high voices greeted them as they came over the lip of the trail, for there were a number of youths keeping an eye on their family's chief wealth, the horses. Most were perched on outcrops or raised hummocks scattered around the fringes of the valley; one or two were mounted and moving among the herd. There was also a cluster of younger children playing on the boggy banks of a little stream, building tiny walls and the keep in miniature, apparently unphased by the cold meltwaters. Haleth stumbled as she and Legolas passed them by. Her attention had been diverted by an urchin who seemed especially adept at getting covered in mud, and was evidently more interested in making little pools than the walls that held them; she had quite a collection of tiny lakes and spillways already. 

Legolas gave Haleth a keen glance, which she returned with a hushed, Children. It's strange to see them.

The elf walked slowly, giving her time to find firmer ground where his own feet made no prints at all. Past the stream they turned aside, threading their way between a ring of horses to reach the man they had come to see: a marshal clad in mail and a deep green cloak, presently conversing with a leather-faced old man in drab clothes. The horseman acknowledged the visitors with a courteous nod as they approached, but the elder's voice droned on; he was reciting a litany of the living, the lame, the dead, and the newly ownerless horses. At length the rider held up his hand to interrupt his flow of speech. The speaker not only stopped in mid-word, but seemed to have lost the power of speech altogether when he turned to find an elf standing beside him.

Lord Legolas, said the knight respectfully. The loan we gave you has been repaid in generous measure.

Legolas inclined his head, recognizing the rider from Éomer's company, a man who had risked more than he realized by putting a spear to Aragorn's shoulder at their first meeting. Arod is strong and sure-footed. If you have any smaller animals who are riderless, my friend here is from Lórien, and needs a mount for the road to Gondor.

The man blinked in surprise. Elf, dwarf, wizard, _holbyta_... elf-maid going to war? These are strange times, as Lord Éomer said!

Haleth grinned, throwing back at him, Does not the Third Marshal have a sister?

The soldier laughed. So he does. He fell back into his own tongue, consulting with the old man over the lists. At length he shook his head and turned back to tell them, I am sorry, my lord, but right now we ourselves are trying to match horses to every warrior who can ride. I will send a lad to fetch you if we find one for your shieldmaiden.

Thank you, sir, said Haleth, with no sign of disappointment save the slight movement of her shoulders. She gave the other man, peering at her suspiciously, a bright smile. I will be with my people at the muster.

As they were leaving, a boy sitting on a boulder leapt to his feet and raced towards them. Fíriel! Fíriel! Darting between horses, he suddenly pulled up short, gawking the tall elf.

Haleth punched his shoulder gently, grinning at his expression. Hai, Éothain. This is Legolas, an elf-prince and comrade to Lord Aragorn. How's my young axe-man?

The boy held up his right hand, which was bound and wrapped. My first scar, it will be, he said proudly, although he swallowed his words under the scrutiny of the keen-eyed elf. M-my lady, I'm sorry. I used up all your arrows.

_All_ of them? Are you sure? Her face grew stern. Legolas, what do you say to an archer that uses up all his arrows in a battle?

He smiled faintly. That he has not wasted them.

Éothain flushed. Thank you, sir. He still looked crestfallen, but his words picked up speed as he chased down his thoughts. But I have your bow! Do you want it back? Fíriel, you were right! It shot very far, and the rain didn't bother it at all. The men said I was a good archer.

Haleth nodded in satisfaction. Did you hear that, Legolas? They gave him an axe. But this is no dwarf. He just needed a weapon his size to prove himself.

The elf observed the boy gravely, folding his arms. To prove himself a _firion_, you mean?

Her eyes danced. Yes, exactly. She considered the boy's question. You may keep it. I don't have time to hunt for new arrows right now.

Thank you! Éothain's eyes shone. Mother— My mother told me to thank you for her also. Will you be staying long? She wants to give you something.

She patted his shoulder, declaring confidently, No, I ride to Gondor with Lord Aragorn and your king.

He sagged. You're leaving? I thought you said you had no horse.

I am looking for one. She glanced towards the two men, who had resumed their conversation without another glance at the visitors. 

The youth sighed, tugging restlessly with the bandage on his wrist. There are not going to be any horses left in Rohan until the war is over. So many warriors are riding away to Gondor.

Haleth dropped to one knee next to him, her elven manner of speech growing subtly more pronounced, or at least more deliberate. Éothain, hear me.

He fidgeted with his hands but listened attentatively.

The younger children will look to you for courage, for you have fought in the battle and know a little of what we face. And that will be hard, because it may grow very dark before your king returns. But remember how dark it was that night, and how frightening, and then think of the dawn with your king riding out and the horns ringing, and victory with the sunrise. Tell the children what Lord Aragorn said, that there is always hope. We have great men with us— she glanced up with a hint of awe herself at the archer standing patiently beside her— and fell-handed elves. The Hornburg did not fall. Neither will we.

I will remember, the boy said softly.

_Westu hál,_ young archer, she told him. Perhaps I will see you on the fields of Rohan when the war is over. She kissed his hair.

With that, they went on their way, leaving the boy to fend off excited questions from some of the other children converging upon him.

Legolas repeated as they reached the top of the path down to the keep. Even to your own kind?

They don't know what it means, Haleth said, amused.

That is a game you play, Legolas observed, glancing down at her hair where it covered the tips of her ears.

When they reached the bottom, the archer glanced upwards sharply, noting a familiar silhouette against the sky. Aragorn was leaning against a balustrade high above them, bracing his arms as if he were bearing the weight of the mountain behind him on his shoulders. The elf's brow furrowed.

Haleth squinted into the sun, searching for whatever had caught his attention. What is it?

Lord Aragorn.

She frowned, although there had been little in his tone to give her suspicion. Then I hope I'll see you at the muster. A distant horn in the Deeping Coomb seemed to punctuate her words. _Hannon le_, Legolas, for the seeking of a horse, the song, and some much-needed orc-tossing.

* * *

Gimli sat upon a low wall behind Aragorn, arms folded along the top of his axe. What has happened? he asked finally. I thought you said you'd take a little rest. Looks to me like you're worse off with a few hours' sleep than four days without.

Aragorn turned away from the parapet, shaking his head. It will be some while before I can rest, Gimli. There are two roads before me, and I think the one I must take is the Paths of the Dead.

The dwarf sat up with a start. That bauble Wormtongue threw down— it didn't bounce off your head, did it?

The ranger gave a wry laugh. It did, but not then. He met the dwarf's gaze squarely. I looked into it.

Gimli groaned. Worse and worse. I leave you alone for a few hours and you turn into a hobbit. Behind the grumbling, the dwarf was watching him with grave concern. Did you... did you see the Eye?

Yes, and he saw me. Aragorn smiled raggedly. Though as our comely elf complains, that is not much to look at these days. Sauron now knows who I am, Gimli. But no more than that.

The dwarf pushed to his feet and stumped over. What in Durin's name possessed you? Even Gandalf would not touch it, once he knew what it was. He foisted it off on you!

Nothing possessed me save need, replied Aragorn sternly. There was a hardness in his face which the dwarf had not seen before. Nor did Gandalf give it to me simply to keep safe. It was a challenge, Gimli, to see whether I can best our foe by will or design, since we cannot defeat him by arms. That challenge I met, barely.

The dwarf stared at him agog, a few embers of doubt still flickering under his brows. Seems a mighty risk just to flaunt your fist in his face, Aragorn!

There is more. The ranger turned east, eyes narrowing. When I wrested the Palántir from him I saw his plans. There is a great threat coming from the south which Gondor cannot withstand, and I doubt Rohan will reach the city in time to counter it. I am not even certain Théoden's people have the numbers and strength enough for the task.

Gimli's face fell. Then our hope fades.

Aragorn straightened. Remember who I am, Gimli son of Glóin. Isildur's heir I must be, now that I have thrown down the gauntlet and shown myself to the Enemy, in deed as well as blood. He exhaled, evidently reaching a decision at last. So I must take Isildur's path.

And that is? Legolas said, stepping out onto the parapet behind Gimli.

Aragorn met the elf's fierce glance with one of his own. The Black Stone of Erech. Come. I will explain as we go down. I must speak with Timdaur.

* * *

Horns were ringing from cliff to cliff when Aragorn and his companions came to the gates. The host of the Rohirrim were assembling across the mouth of the Deeping Coomb. Their green cloaks and mail shone in the noonday sun, at least where shadows from the looming cliffs on either side did not cover them, and some of the watchers fitting stone to the broken wall wept as they looked down from the heights. Théoden and Éomer were supervising the muster from the lower span of the causeway. Meriadoc, wearing the colors of the Mark and mounted on a sturdy pony at his new master's side, watched the proceedings with a worried but determined expression that would have startled the cousins he'd left behind in the Shire. 

In the flats below, marshals were leading their _éords_ one by one to the glittering stream for a last watering before the journey. This had taken some time, for Théoden was bringing nearly every rider in the Mark who could wield sword or lance. He was counting upon the hammer of Sauron's might to fall hardest upon Gondor and the Golden Wood, between which any force from the east must pass to come at Rohan. This was not to the liking of all his councillors, who did not wish to hazard their folk on the strength of elven bows and a Lady they feared to name, or upon the uncertain will of the shepherds of the ancient forest. Nor were all foes in the west vanquished. Saruman might be contained, but the Misty Mountains still had their orcs and lesser vermin. But Aragorn had been adamant at the council, and the king agreed: prudence and despair had nearly cost them everything in their dealings with Saruman. This war could only be won by trusting to fragile hopes. 

Legolas searched for the Galadrim when he followed Aragorn out into the sunlight. They had assembled on the far side of the Coomb, clustered in formation on the toes of the crumbling slope down which the White Rider had come blazing two days before. The archer was pleased, for he saw that Rohan had given its finest treasures to his people to speed them on their way: long-limbed but strong horses showing a hint of Shadowfax in their proud bearing. He was also quick to note one absence among them. 

Aragorn noticed two others, and touched his shoulder. _I rych_. 

The elf dipped his eyes and turned back towards the citadel to seek the stables. Aragorn and Gimli went on, striding down the causeway to meet the king. Timdaur, spotting them from afar, rode over from his company to join them. 

Lord Aragorn. Théoden hailed as they approached. All is in readiness, and my doubts are set aside. 

As are mine, Aragorn said with a smile at the dwarf's grumble. 

Éomer, studying the Ranger's lined face with a frown, opened his mouth to speak, but Gimli interrupted him. 

Are you tied on, Merry? Gimli called up to the hobbit. I am not chasing after you a second time, so be sure you don't fall behind. 

I don't intend to, the hobbit said stoutly. But if you want to keep up, I hope you have a horse. 

Aragorn laughed. Legolas is fetching ours. The Three Hunters have had enough of running across Rohan for the moment. 

Timdaur nodded a greeting to the king before turning to Aragorn. Dunédan. Where would you have us? 

Gimli snorted. And well you should ask, Captain! Aragorn has a notion to try a road that should earn us a song or three, if any live to tell of it. 

But the grave elf seemed to know what was afoot, and stated simply, Then you have chosen prophecy. 

I have, said Aragorn, for time grows short, as Elrond warned me in his last message. I shall put the words of the Seer to the test. Will you follow? 

The elves do not fear your dead, Dúnedan. We will go wherever need drives you. 

At this odd exchange, several of the king's guard murmured uneasily to one another. Éomer, nudging his mount forward, interrupted their discussion, speaking in dismay that was mirrored on the face of the king. Aragorn, what are you saying? Are we not to draw swords together in battle? Will you turn aside from Gondor at the very hour when we ride to her aid? 

I do not turn aside, Éomer! The man's eyes flashed, but his tone was fond. We shall draw swords together, my friend, though all the hosts of Mordor come between us; provided that I can win another battle first. Rohan's aid may decide whether Gondor stands or falls. But such force takes time to gather. I and Timdaur must ride the swiftest road to Minas Tirith, and prepare your way. 

That is sense, although your counsel will be missed, the king said doubtfully. But what is this talk of Seers and the dead? With all due respect to Gandalf, I have had my fill of sorcery. 

I ride to Dunharrow, answered Aragorn, his face stern and resolute, on a road appointed me long ago. 

Murmurs changed to exclamations of dread among the Rohirrim who heard this, and Éomer himself blanched. Merry shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, bewildered and alarmed by the reactions of the warriors around him. 

Speak no inauspicious words! Théoden cried. That is not a road for mortal men— or any living folk. He tipped his chin towards the elves. 

What madness is on you? Éomer demanded, beseeching his friend. I think Saruman must have bent his will to rob us of you when we need you most! 

Gimli sighed loudly at the Ranger's elbow. I don't see why you couldn't put your mad notions on the table during the council, Aragorn, so that we might all bellow at you together and have done. And where's that elf? 

* * *

The stables of the keep were stout-walled, narrow, and dark, built to one side of the king's hall, and little to an elf's liking. Such were the needs of war. They were all but empty now, apart from a few boys cleaning the stalls, but the stablemaster met Legolas at the entrance and stammered a greeting. 

he said haltingly. They are saddled and ready at the far end— _(arrow-lord in Old English)_

Legolas did not pause in his running, and left the man bemused and still finishing his sentence. The elf moved swiftly along the narrow aisle, sniffing the odd heavy scents of hay and human, sweat and wood and leather. Most of this was alien to him. There were few horses in Mirkwood, and they were canny, wild creatures that ran free with the deer in the northern meadows and beech-groves guarded by his folk. 

Brego and Arod had been stabled in a stall together at the back, as the old man had said, kept apart from the bustle that had doubtless filled the place a short time ago. They were not only tacked and ready, but freshly groomed, and their harness had been scrubbed clean of the dirt and stains from travel and the recent battle. The horses were not alone, either. A small figure was perched on the stone wall beside them. Haleth hopped down and unlatched the door as he approached, then caught Brego's bridle and guided him out as Legolas slipped past her into the stall. 

he said briefly. There was little time for greeting animal or human, and after a light touch between Arod's eyes, he followed her out with his mount pacing at his shoulder. 

Ah, Legolas, I thought you were not coming! A pity. I was just debating which of these beauties to steal. 

I am sorry, he said as they moved up the aisle. 

She wiped a smudge of sawdust from Brego's halter, shaking her head. Well, perhaps I should have gone back to Lórien after all. There are always trees enough to go around. But I must not grumble. I hear that even the White Lady of Rohan cannot seem to find a horse in the land of the horse-lords. She does not know when it is permitted for a lady of such renown to apply the flat of a sword to someone's backside. 

That drew a laugh from the elf. The people of Rohan also need defenders, he reminded her. 

I know it. Her voice softened. And they need folk who are not strong but can feign courage. Remember those you leave behind, Legolas! You go off to war and deeds, certain in the strength of your hands and your friends. But many are ignorant of such matters and must wait, fearful and powerless, while their loved ones struggle to defend them. I will suffer stone walls for their sake, since I cannot follow you. 

They cleared the stable's entryway, giving the grizzled stablemaster a nod as they passed. In the slanting light of a high window overlooking the garth, Legolas leapt up into the saddle and beckoned to her when she did not do the same. Come. You cannot ride to Gondor, but you may as well help me bring Brego to his master and see us off. 

I wasn't sure it was permitted for anyone besides a king's son or a king-to-be to ride him. Her face turned pensive as she unclasped her cloak and threw its hood over the bill of the saddle, scrambling up the cloth as if scaling a rope. They say this animal was Théodred's. 

I know, he said, ducking under an arched doorway as they came into the king's hall. There was an unspoken concern in her voice that he had not missed, but he did not answer it. Haleth, that is an odd way of mounting a horse. Is everything a tree to you? 

Anything whose nose I can't reach by hopping, she shot back. 

By the time they reached the gate, Théoden and his guard had advanced to to the front of the host and were gathering in formation under the king's banner. Legolas turned aside at the foot of the causeway and rode along the wall behind the assembled _éords_, having spotted Gimli and Aragorn walking back to the Galadrim with their captain. 

There you are at last! Gimli growled as the elf dismounted to hoist him. It was an indignity the dwarf had been forced to accept during the trek from Edoras; in exchange, Legolas had yielded to his demands for a saddle. I thought perhaps you had decided to weave little elf-braids into their hair. 

Haleth hopped down and passed the reins to Aragorn with a shy bow, then stepped into the shadow of the wall to watch them depart. Legolas glanced down at her, just in time to see her yearning expression melt into raw astonishment as a young voice called out behind them. 

Legolas turned and spotted the small rider cantering their way. Éothain was slipping forward and hanging onto the tall horse's neck in his haste to reach them before the horns sounded. Evidently he had been waiting under the upper span of the causeway. 

I think you have your horse, Legolas observed, feeling Gimli's less than patient glowering at his back. The elf and dwarf moved off, taking up their usual position at Aragorn's side. 

I think you are right, she said to empty air, then ran to meet the boy. 

Fíriel!" Éothan cried again, causing a few heads in the hindmost ranks of the Rohirrim to turn. He slipped awkwardly from the high saddle, and was lucky someone was there save him from a tumble. 

Hai, Éothain, you've found me, she said, gripping his shoulders tightly and bending a knee to come down to his eye level. She spoke slowly, dismissing the bustle and hubbub of the muster and the repair-work being done almost overhead. But that is Garold. I can tell by the way he is looking at you. I cannot take one of your own family! If something were to happen— 

Lord Éomer has commanded every horse fit for travel to be given to a warrior. Garold rides to battle. There was a glitter of tears in the boy's eyes, although he spoke earnestly and soberly. I am the man of my household, and I say who will ride him. It is Fíriel. 

The shouts of several thousand men rolled across the Coomb and back, booming like thunder: it was a rallying-cry for Théoden and the Mark. But Haleth searched his eyes for a long moment before brushing his cheek with her thumb. Then I will do all I can to make sure he rides back, she said finally. Thank you, Éothain. And give your mother my thanks also. 

He nodded and gulped, watching as she stepped to the horse's side and reached up to place her hand against its mane and neck. She whispered a few words in Elvish that caused the boy's face to brighten, and the horse to lower its head curiously, lipping the shoulder of her cloak. Haleth grinned and clapped Garold's withers with the flat of her hand. Then she ducked under him, searched for a good-sized notch in the stonework, jammed her heel against it as a mounting block, and hauled herself up in a somewhat more dignified manner than she had shown the elf. The horns of Rohan began to ring from every slab of the Hornburg. 

Be careful, Garold, the boy whispered, inaudible in the uproar. _Westu Hál_, Fíriel. With that, he turned away and strode off, shoulders set so that he could not turn his head. Haleth pressed heels lightly against the horse's sides and reached the company of Gray-elves just as its leaders were taking their places. 

Timdaur turned in the saddle and raised a hand towards her in a dismissive gesture. We ride the Paths of the Dead. That is no road for a mortal. 

The young woman stared at the captain incredulously, and shifted her gaze towards Aragorn and Gimli with a meaningful lift of her eyebrows. But Timdaur's face remained closed. 

_Hîr nín,_ Haleth said firmly, _Camen fíreb; gûren e-dawaredhel._

Legolas started, a peculiar expression flickering briefly across his face. 

Timdaur's face grew stern. Stay with your own kind, _fíriel,_ he snapped. That is an order. 

The woman's jaw tightened, but she made no further protest. Silently, she turned her horse's head and moved to one side. Théoden at the forefront of the vast host raised his arm, and the horns fell silent. 

_Forth Eorlingas!_ he commanded. The cry was taken up by the riders and the watchers of the garrison as the _éords_ began to move. The Gray Company started too, since their course lay together with the Rohirrim for some leagues before they turned off south towards Dunharrow. The Deeping Coomb trembled with the beat of countless hooves. 

What was all that about? Gimli shouted in Legolas' ear as the dust rose around them. What did she say? 

Legolas seemed to hesitate for a moment before calling over his shoulder. My hand is mortal, but my heart is elven. 

The dwarf snorted. And evidently her brain is addled. 

_(She actually said: "My hand is mortal, but my heart is the wood-elf's.")_


	9. I RAID I FIRN The Paths of the Dead

**Part II: The Arrows of the King**

___________________________________ 

**Pent Malbeth i Diriel:**

  
  
Erin ennor pelia gwathand,  
nan annûn rovail môr rimmol.  
I vinas gîr. Nan serch erain  
manadh anglenna. I echui  
I Firn. I lû Gwedwerwaith tôl:  
Ne Gond Erech adylithar;  
Lastathar romru ath emyn.  
Man gerel rom? Man estol hain  
E thinnu thind, i 'waith ú-rîn?  
I chîl pen amman gwestanner.  
O Forven telitha. Baur horth(ol).  
Athratha Fen nadh Raid i Firn.

_Thus spoke Malbeth the Seer:_

Over the land there lies a long shadow,  
westward reaching wings of darkness.  
The Tower trembles; to the tomb of kings  
Doom approaches. The Dead awaken;  
for the hour is come for the Oathbreakers:  
at the Stone of Erech they shall stand again  
and hear there a horn in the hills ringing.  
Whose shall the horn be? Who shall call them  
from the gray twilight, the forgotten people?  
The heir of him to whom the oath they swore.  
From the North shall he come, need shall drive him:  
He shall pass the Door to the Paths of the Dead.

  
  


In the brown light of dawn, Aragorn had turned south and come to the yawning black door at the root of the Haunted Mountain, from which the minds of Rohan's folk had recoiled all the years they had lived in its shadow. One by one his gray-cloaked companions passed under the rune-scrawled archway into the mountain, heedless of the gloom and malice that seeped from its stones. Now ageless elves trod the Paths of the Dead, their footfalls barely louder than those of the shades that followed. The slogging hoofbeats of their horses rattled and echoed in the chill, heavy air. A mortal man doggedly led them forward by the wan light of a single torch, and Legolas carried another at the back of the column. Last of all trudged a single, stubborn dwarf. 

Gimli almost longed for an elf's heart himself, and he did not doubt he would be addled before their nightmare journey was over. He resigned himself to staring straight ahead, keeping his eyes upon elf-friend and the horse that walked beside him, both glimmering redly in the torchlight like the unsettled dreams he had carried with him since Moria. There was room for horse and elf to walk abreast, yet in the barren stone womb of the Dwimorberg it seemed as if the walls were pressed inwards against the very sides of Gimli's helm. For once, the elves could not complain he was breathing too loudly; the sound was not coming from the dwarf. Whispers swirled around them, rose and fell like wet leaves hissing in a dying fire. There was no scent at all in this forsaken place save a sick dread that worked its way into one's bones. Torchlight flickered fitfully on dull stone or wood or metal; restless eyes slid away from surfaces too quickly to know what they were. The proud horses of the Riddermark were like ghosts themselves, noses rising and falling only a foot or two above the floor, each one moving at a plodding walk. At every shoulder, a tall elf walked steadily, one hand placed against the animal's cheek. The dwarf was the only one among the company whose will was bent solely on the task of keeping his own feet moving. 

_Keep breathing, that's the key! It's one thing the dead don't do very well, for all that racket they're making._

Legolas walked at the rear of the company with Arod, and kept glancing back. Sometimes he was checking on Gimli, and that was bad enough. The dwarf had a silly notion the elf would start leading him along like their poor horses, dragging him by his beard. Gimli was glad that Legolas had a torch in his other hand. But sometimes the elf seemed simply curious, like a young child finding a dead bird in the snow, probing its frozen outstretched wing with a fingertip. Whenever he looked over his shoulder, there were lights reflected in the elf's shining eyes that were pale and cold, not torchlight. 

_When the black breath blows and death's shadow grows..._

Stop doing that, Gimli muttered under his breath. 

Legolas looked past the dwarf's shoulder and told him gently, They are not getting any closer. 

Gimli bristled at the kindness in his voice. If I wanted to know that, Master Elf, I could see it for myself easily enough! 

The elf tucked a smile away, checking his stride. Walk next to me, Gimli. When we come out the other side, I do not think there will be much time for fellowship for many days to come. 

_Where will wants not, a way opens..._

The other elves kept moving, and did not seem to notice that their torchbearer had dropped behind. Gimli forced his feet to quicken and fell in beside the elf, trudging three steps for his every two. Somewhere at the front of the company, Aragorn was picking up the pace. The dead man's horse that had claimed him did not seem to notice the wraiths or walls anymore than the elves did, and pushed forward eagerly in a place where no animal should be. 

_No living man am I..._

Had Aragorn really come back to them at Helm's Deep, or was he also a ghost? Had Théodred? Was Arwen at the Havens, or was Legolas? Gimli felt dizzy. His thoughts were starting to flicker along with the torches. 

_Time does not stand still, though the Sun be lost...._

He never did take a bath, Gimli grumbled to the elf, clutching his axe more tightly. I am beginning to think you have a point after all. 

Help me dip him when we get to Gilrain, Legolas whispered. 

_Dead faces in the water..._

Even Legolas' voice was beginning to pall. Elves were too pale, and the dwarf was sick of whispering. He did not answer. Gimli stared grimly at the firelight glinting off the helm of the elf ahead of them, and imagined the ring of his boots was a hammer at the forge. That was better. 

Yet the whispering was getting louder, and the echoes seemed to come from all around them, for the walls had opened out leaving them in a wide shapeless chamber that was more disorienting than the tunnel at their backs. The roof was low, and they could not see what lay around them. There was another abrupt halt. Gimli peered forward, trying to see what was happening up at the front of the column. 

_Your king hath passed through..._

Aragorn had turned off to the left bearing his feeble torch while the elves waited. Its flame was now strangely motionless even when he moved, rising straight and thin as a candle's. At length the light of it fell on a rough-hewn wall, a great stone door, and the figure of a man fallen before the threshold. His mail and helm glittered gold in the torchlight, and white bone winked between gaps in his armor. Aragorn stooped, and the whispering of the dead grew louder. Gimli saw shadows beginning to drift around him, and tried to block out the sight of them by squinting. Shades seemed to be leaning over the man as he crouched down. 

_I would not take this thing, if I found it lying by the highway..._

Aragorn lifted something that flashed white and silver from the side of the dead man: a small horn. Then he straightened and turned, staring unflinchingly back the way they had come. 

Let us pass, and then follow! he said in a fierce voice. The murmurs of the dead died away, but the oppressive silence that followed was almost worse than the whispers. I summon you to the Stone of Erech! 

_The perishing is more likely, and will be a lot easier anyway..._

A blast of cold air swept through the chamber, devouring the torches. Neither spark nor heat remained in them. The host began to move forward again; evidently Aragorn did not deem it worth trying to relight them. 

_Oft hope is born, when all is forlorn..._

Breathing. That was the key. 


	10. NE GOND ERECH At the Stone of Erech

The way grew narrow, and narrower still, to judge by the echoes. Finally the horses' tails swished against the walls. Gimli held his axe before him, but sometimes it would catch stone with a grating clang. He could still hear the light footfalls of Legolas up ahead of him, and that was a kindness, for the elf could make no sound if he chose. But they could no longer walk together. At first they had shared in whispers their hopes and fears for the Wood and Mountain, for both guessed war was already on the borders of their native land. Nevertheless, their conversation soon trailed away into unresolved silence. To Gimli, each word was an effort as much as every step, and he had not the will to spare for both. 

Besides, the dead were listening. 

But when the hooves of the horses had dwindled to a faint murmur some distance ahead, and it seemed as if the mountain's weight was squeezing the walls together into a mere crack to cut him off from the rest of the company, the stumbling dwarf saw a glimmer. Soon he was certain it was not merely the groping fancy of his eyes, but the pale hair of the elf who walked before him. The dim light grew. The tunnel opened. A rivulet of water dripping from stones collected and began to run beside them. They passed under another archway and came out into the living air of a deep-cloven ravine. The fading light of sunset tinged the sheer crests of the cliffs, and to the dwarf's numb wonderment there was a sky overhead, and a few stars already twinkling in its cold blue waters. In that moment he could almost have waxed lyrical on the subject of Elbereth, but pride and friendship were rough bunkmates, and Legolas was watching him again as if to make sure he'd retained his faculties. 

Gimli snorted and looked around them. Now where in Middle Earth are we? 

Aragorn's voice answered from the shadows nearby. Morthond, which is Blackroot, and I need not tell you why. Astride Brego, he waited by the tunnel's mouth in the shallows of the stream itself, for there was not room for two to pass on the narrow rocky strip that hugged its bank. Water rushed and gurgled around the horse's legs, hissing. The man's face was drawn and stern but undaunted; little else would trouble him ever again after wrestling with the horror of the palantír. Rouse the horses, my friends. There's many leagues yet to Erech, and we must be there before the sun rises. 

Remind me again why we have a wild man from the north as our guide, Gimli grumbled. 

Legolas, like the other elves, was singing quietly to soothe the horses awake. Their voices more than anything else helped banish the dread of the place from which they'd come. But not entirely. The dwarf did not turn to find out what, if anything, had followed them. 

Come, Gimli, said Legolas, holding out his arm. Arod's tail swished, and the horse's head was held high; there was no trace of weariness on any of the animals or hint that they remembered where they had been. Gimli heaved aboard, and the elf leapt up behind him; the rest of the company had already travelled some distance down the bank of the watercourse. For a brief time Aragorn rode behind them, with the shades of the Oathbreakers pressing hard on his heels. 

The dusk deepened. The walls of the ravine abruptly peeled back, and the Morthond Stream plunged with a crash over a stony shelf beside the track. From there it fell by terraces down into a wide grassy valley. Far below was the humble ruddy glow of distant lamps and hearth-fires. Gimli's spirits rose at the smell of wood-smoke. Somewhere in the fir-clad slope on their left hand, faint above the rush of the falls, came the ordinary peals of a squalling infant, some cottager's child fretting over nothing worse than dinner. But there was no time for the company to seek news or a hearty meal. 

They began to pass huts built on stilts down by the river, and now and then a local putting stores away or bringing in wood for the night's fire. But no friendly hails greeted them, only cries of fear. Burdens were tossed aside, and men and women and children lunged for the cover of their homes or the forest at their backs; doors were slammed shut; dogs howled or cowered or broke their chains and bolted. Rumor of the ride of the sinister host swept through the Morthond Vale at the speed of sturdy mountain-bred horses, as the inhabitants fled or took refuge in the wooded slopes and canyons on either side of the river. The last dun tints of sunset had not yet faded from the sky, but Aragorn's company was already passing many homesteads where all lights had been extinguished, a few of them abandoned with doors still swinging. _The King of the Dead,_ came the cries from woods and rocky copses. _The King of the Dead is come!_ Aragorn's return could have brought no greater fear had he taken the ring from Frodo's hand. 

Once the road widened and bent southeast, Aragorn resumed his position at the front of the elven-host, setting a grueling pace. Gimli and Legolas rode beside him again, and that was to the dwarf's liking; he wanted no more wights breathing at his back. But Aragorn was silent, bent on his own inner struggle, stretching the horses as much as he dared, lest he miss the midnight tryst. Far into the night they rode. 

As it drew near the appointed hour, Legolas suddenly gave a cry and pointed with his left hand towards the mountains. The clouds were few and high this night, but through those veils that rested on the mountain-peaks there came a sudden red flicker. As they watched it grew brighter and brighter. The keen-eyed elf could see it was not one flame, but many, travelling westward like a slow-moving bolt of lightning along the top of the range whose toes they were skirting, flashing from peak to peak. It was coming straight towards them, and it was coming from the direction Minas Tirith. 

A dragon? Gimli exclaimed, the heart within him going suddenly cold. 

The beacon-fires of Anórien, replied Aragorn, his ragged words torn away on the wind. Lord Denethor calls for aid. We are summoned! 

Then has the siege begun? asked the dwarf. 

Aragorn began to pull away from them; Brego had caught his rider's fey mood. Not yet, his answer came drifting back. But war comes, and the Steward calls for all free folk to gather in Gondor's chief stronghold, where they may fight together with stout walls at their backs. Yet neither we nor Rohan can reach the city before the lands around her are held against us! 

Aftrewards he pressed them harder still, and the leagues of the mountain road were fleeting beneath the feet of the steeds of Rohan, any of whom might have rivalled Shadowfax under the guiding will of such riders. Finally, at midnight, they came at last to the bleak hill with the Black Stone set upon it. The elven-host halted in a half-circle at the foot of the mound, for this was man's business. Even Legolas and Gimli stayed below, watching anxiously as Aragorn scaled the round hill, step by labored step. His bent figure was silhouetted against the full moon. They could see him stand and straighten by the huge sphere of rock set into the earth at the hill's crest. He turned and looked both north and east. Then he drew the silver horn and blew one haunting note. 

Figures Gimli had been trying not to see rushed between and through the elf-host like a wind-blown skirl of leaves and swept around the lonely figure who awaited them. The air around the man was suddenly full of moving shadows, not just empty darkness. He raised his hand. 

_Oathbreakers, why have ye come?_

Dim and cold came a chorus of voices that made Gimli wish his axe were still in his hands and not strapped across his back. _To fulfill our oath and have peace. _

The hour is come, for I am Elessar Isildur's heir, to whom the oath was sworn. And when the lands from Erech to Pelargir are cleansed of Sauron's servants, the oath shall be fulfilled and ye shall have peace. Follow. 

He did not seem a living man who spoke, although his voice rang out clear over their rustling murmur. In answer to his command came the braying of many horns, faint and discordant, ill notes jarring even to dwarf-ears used to the scrape of metal on stone and the clamor of the forge. The elves shifted in their saddles, the first sign of unease they had shown on this eerie journey. 

Aragorn strode quickly back down the hill and did not speak. He slung himself into the saddle. Brego leapt forward again and resumed the race eastward. The elves followed, and the dead pursued. So he became King of the Dead for a while, who was not yet king of the living. 


	11. I FERYN NELED The Three Hunters

All that day they crossed the uplands of Lamedon under a pale grey sky. Light winter clouds clustered on the mountaintops which flanked both sides of the lonely road. A few outlying peaks rose high to the south, separated by a narrow neck of land from the spine of peaks that now lay between them and Rohan on their left. Rocky meads of yellowed grass spread out all around them. There were sheep bleating on the hills, but they saw no trace of men. 

At the end of the long and wearisome day they came to an ordered hamlet on the bank of a river, but they found it utterly deserted. Its inhabitants had gone away to war, or else forsaken their homes at the tidings that the King of the Dead had come forth. Cats skulked in doorways and between the houses, watching the host pass by. An inn's sign creaked in a wind no one could feel. The Galadrim observed closely the humble half-timbered houses, thatched roofs, and winter-nipped vines of roses climbing walls and porches. Even the ordinary sight of a wagon abandoned in the middle of the street, leaning on a broken wheel, was a strange curiosity for them. All was silent. The footfalls of their steeds thudded on the dusty road. 

Aragorn called a rest when they reached the stone bridge on the far side of town, and they turned off into the fallow fields to pitch camp and take a much-needed rest. The elves did not feel the oppressive pall of the dead, but Aragorn was wise enough to know the leader of the company needed a clear head and all his powers for the trial to come. Also there were the horses: elves could fire their spirits, but not give them strength beyond their mortal frames. The hardy dwarf could have made do, but was just as happy that the leader of the host was mortal after all. 

Sometime during the night, Gimli was roused out of a prodigious snore by a sharp cry. As he reached for his axe, he blearily realized it had come from Legolas. 

The Mirkwood elf was not the only one yammering; many of the Galadrim were speaking in dismayed murmurs to one another. 

What is it? Gimli muttered, making his way towards Aragorn by the reek of his pipe. He found the man sitting a little apart from the rest of the company, drying out before a small fire. Gimli and Legolas had made good on their pact at at the bridge, and the dwarf approached him cautiously. Where is that squeaking elf? 

There was a soft rattle of arrows as Legolas sat down by the dwarf, but he did not speak; he simply drew a knife that flashed in the dim firelight and pointed upwards. 

Gimli squinted, following the gleam of red along the blade to the moon hovering over the mountains. It took him a moment to grasp what the elf was pointing out to him. The moon's face was a dull rust, though it was one night past the full. Yet even as he watched it was fading to the color of dried blood. There were no stars in that part of the sky. 

It started an hour ago, Aragorn said grimly. Legolas, what do you make of it? 

A fume blown on an ill wind from the east, the elf sighed. Mordor is coming between us and the very stars. And the cloud is getting thicker. There will be no sunrise. 

There was a faint red glow on the man's face as he blew into his tobacco. Sauron has answered my challenge, he mused, face shut as it had been since they set out from Dunharrow. We have little time, my friends. 

And some seventy leagues before us! Gimli growled. Can the horses reach Pelargir ahead of that fleet you saw? And running blind? 

The Ranger shook his head, evidently considering his options. Smoke ringed his head, and behind him, the last wide open patch of sky was growing smaller. Another star winked out. 

Yet Legolas' voice was steady and sure. My people can guide them, Aragorn, if there is any light left at all. 

The man shifted around with a creak of leather. The horses were moving restlessly in the middle of the bivouac. They had encamped in a circle with the elves ringing the horses, to keep them together and protected, and to set a wall between them and the horror of the flitting shades. Other than the champ of teeth or hooves and the occasional snort, there was no other sound; the slow-moving Ciril flowed mutely beside them, and the elves had stopped talking, returning to whatever manner of rest they needed. A few open eyes gleamed, reflecting the embers of Aragorn's fading fire. Elves never closed their eyes for long save in death. 

Gimli found himself missing the hobbits again. He'd caught Pippin more than once daring the others to dribble water in Legolas' eyes when the elf dozed, but the other hobbits were not Tooks, and the experiment had gone untried. The dwarf sighed and rose to his feet, knowing that brooding was a man's job, and that his was to rest or ride until he had more orcs to cleave. 

Abruptly Aragorn began to laugh. 

Gimli straightened, not liking this at all. 

The Ranger took another draw from his pipe. Look east, he said conversationally. 

The dwarf peered, about to complain he could not tell east from upside down in such darkness, then discovered his meaning. Gimli, too, began to chuckle. Well, well. Sauron has left a lamp burning for us, hasn't he now? 

It was true. Close to them the great walls of the White Mountains of Gondor reared up; only the faintest hint of gray still glimmered on their snowy heights now that the moon was eclipsed. The tops of some were lost within the creeping haze. But there were gaps between their shoulders, and the eastern sky was not altogether black, although it was a solid ceiling. Far, far in the distance came a dim red glow, which could only hint at the unimaginable fires that must be leaping from Orodruin, the fiery mountain in the heart of the land of shadow. 

The forges of the Dark Lord burn the fiercer, said Aragorn, as his doubt grows. The more he seeks to drown us in darkness, the brighter that flame will become. His fears will light the road before us when all other lights go out. 

_Radathar aen i pheriannath ennas ven dîn,_ Legolas prayed under his breath. * 

Aragorn blew another thin ribbon of smoke, gray eyes soft. Frodo and Sam will find a way, Legolas. 

Gimli's spirits fell as he glared towards that distant but awful glimmer of the mountain they knew was the root of all their hopes and fears, the destination of the hobbits' desperate errand. I wish we could do aught for them. 

Aragorn smiled. We are, my friends, though you do not know it. Where do you think the foe has kept the vast armies he is gathering against us? All across the northern plains of Mordor, between the Black Gate and Orodruin. They stood exactly between the Ringbearer and his goal. But the host that remains there is much diminished, for our victory at Rohan and my little chat with him have given the Dark Lord reason to strike us swiftly. If we can take Pelargir and confound his plans further, he will empty his land against us. We shall have cleared the path for Frodo and Sam far more than we could by defending them with axe, bow, and sword. 

Gimli turned back, leaning on his axe and staring down at the man with a mixture of awe, horror, and respect. Even though we may well lose your precious city, and like as not ourselves in the process. 

Aragorn's eyes flashed. I did not defend Helm's Deep only to abandon Minas Tirith, Gimli, and I gave Boromir my word that the White City will not fall. 

Legolas himself drew a sharp breath. You guessed this was needed. That is why you let Frodo go alone. 

Aragorn tapped out his pipe on a stone. In part. But I had no sure means to draw Sauron's attention until the palantír came into my hands. 

Your luck again, Gimli marvelled. The dwarf shifted his feet. Which is all well and fine, but even the elves are going to start calling you King of the Dead if you go another night without sleep. 

The Ranger threw his cloak from his shoulders and stretched himself over it, turning on his side to face the last untroubled patch of stars and the north. Then I suppose I had better sleep, before one of you takes it into your minds to hit me over the head with a rock, he grumbled good-naturedly. Legolas, have Timdaur rouse us two hours before dawn. 

Such dawn as there may be. He rose to his feet but did not go far, keeping watch over those who needed more rest than elves.

*_(May the haflings there find their path.)_


	12. I AUR UANOR The Dawnless Day

The cheerless dawn at Erech had been their last. The brown gloom deepened as they pushed eastward under the heavy sky. Sometimes a gray rain would come tapping down on the heath and hard-packed road, sending up little puffs of dust. This was a wild, rolling country, its ample folds and uplands a delight for idle travellers, but now adding miles to their journey. To the left, snow-capped mountains marched slowly past, laced here and there with white streams falling down to cross their path. The long road looped across foothills speckled with the first flowers of spring, a tumbled profusion of sweet-smelling heather, and fields fenced off by ancient hedges of braided hawthorn, last year's berries dark and glistening. But no birds sang. The wind came in spare, staccato gusts. Some of the elves could feel the distant tug of the sea, since all the lands they crossed sloped down to it, but even that was only a dull ache rather than tempting music. The horses were always wanting to go too slowly, or too quickly for their strength to sustain, and could not make up their minds to hold to any one speed. They jostled and bumped against each other, and arrows rattled.

During most of the dreary day they saw no sign of men save hedgerows, but when the sun was westering somewhere behind them, Timdaur pointed to a low drift of haze sliding down a valley not far off. he warned.

Aragorn acknowledged this with a tight nod. We may have to fight our way through. Alert your folk!

The grim elf nodded and dropped back to order his company. _Smoke and fire_. Those words passed swiftly down the column. Elves fanned out into a double line, with space between horses for bows to lean, and every hand had an arrow nocked to string. Keenly now they rode forward. Ears strained to catch the first sounds of battle echoing in the hills.

Leagues fell behind. Faster they galloped, and suddenly the Dead were among them, spilling forward with fell cries and deadly purpose. Greater they had grown since darkness claimed the sky, and now they could be seen plainly as the shapes of men running or riding, black tattered cloaks streaming behind, arms a sickly white as if swords and spears were fashioned of ice and bone.

But Aragorn recalled them, snapping out, Hold! At my command, and not before!

A hungry whine beat the air, but the Dead fell back, eyes burning.

Gimli clung to Legolas' cloak and grumbled in his ear. Now I begrudge you, friend, for I have no room to swing!

Shall I get down and run beside you? inquired the elf. Then you'll have room for your axe, and I can catch you if you fall off!

Gimli snorted. Not likely. Look! We are nearly there. Give me the lay of the land; I can see nothing in this accursed mirk.

It is the vale of the Ringló, and— Legolas paused as Arod cleared the crest of the hill. His bow-arm went limp. and there is no need for axes, he amended with a sigh.

said Aragorn, grieving.

It had been a grassy vale like so many they had passed. A prosperous settlement of cottages and farmhouses were flung wide across gentle slopes, tumbling down towards yet another river that cut the vale in two. Now fields were burned to bare earth, as were sheepfolds, homesteads, and the little town clustered on both sides of the bridge. All that remained was charred wood and stone foundations, blackened soil. There was no sign of life or foes. Somberly, the company crossed the area of devastation, ashes swirling around their horses' legs. The Dead spread out across the blackened vale, circling, alighting, and whirling off again like a great flock of birds. Nor were they the only dead.

Passing the reins to Gimli, Legolas slid from the saddle and knelt by a prone shape lying on its side in the ditch. The body was so badly burned that he could not tell whether it was a man or woman, young or old, but when he turned it over, there was faint movement under eyelids sealed shut. An infant was clutched to the person's chest, mostly shielded by the arms of the one who held it, but the child was dead.

An elf did not quail at the sight of ten thousand Uruk-hai nor a legion of the empty shades of men, but this was beyond him. He stared at his fair hand resting on the ground beside blackened skin and an infant's white face.

Legolas, we cannot tarry, Timdaur said sternly, reining over to the side of the road.

The Mirkwood elf saw there was nothing to be done. And yet he hesitated.

_The wolves of Isengard will return. Leave the dead._

The words of Théoden had been wise, but their wisdom had broken on the shores of friendship, and Legolas might have defied the king that day had he not been numbed by the impossible fact of a friend's death. Now he twisted around to snap, You would leave them, then, for birds and dogs? There are no _onodrim_ to bury them! Or perhaps this is not your concern, since they are only men?

The captain observed this outburst impassively. Stay if you must, son of Thranduil, but it is for men we ride. He turned his horse's head and spurred back to the head of the company.

Gimli coaxed Arod over to the fuming elf. Come on, lad, he said gruffly. He's right. Aragorn's got the living to worry about.

With a sigh, Legolas drew a long knife and passed it cleanly through the throat of the dying villager. He climbed into the saddle behind Gimli. Quietly they crossed the bridge. Wooden boards boomed like hollow logs underfoot, startlingly loud. Trailing behind, Gimli and Legolas emerged last of all from the former outskirts of the village, and jogged up the dusty slope on the far side.

Aragorn rode back along the line a short time later, looking for them. he asked, coming alongside the pair and raising an eyebrow when he saw which one held the reins. What happened?

Legolas was mute; he might as well have been one more ghost at the back of the column.

Nothing a few targets won't mend, Aragorn, the dwarf explained.

When no other answer was forthcoming, the man issued a sharp command. Legolas, _pedo enni._* 

Legolas stared straight ahead, over the dwarf's helm. _Firn dâd e menig ernediaid. Ah in enith i nengin ú-istam._

_Mellyn istar enith dîn. Ah i goth geritha rîn, ir geveditha chethyl a bing vín._

Legolas replied uneasily. He could not be certain, after all, whether he had found a villager or some man of Umbar with a spark of pity. I wonder, he added, whether Helm's Deep has faced any more assaults. The thought of those good folk coming to grief after all our labor burns my heart. I wish we could have left them a larger garrison.

Aragorn looked keenly at his friend. We must hope, he said gently. But Treebeard promised the ents would keep watch.

Legolas nodded and said no more.

If you two have finished gossiping, Gimli interrupted, Shall we catch up with the leaders? I'll not have these elves cheating me of kills if we come across anything worth hewing.

_*Legolas, speak to me.  
Two dead, out of countless thousands. And we do not know the names of the slain.  
Friends know their names. And the enemy will remember, when they meet our blades and bows.  
May it be.  
_


	13. NAGAD LASBELIN Bite of Autumn

I owe you an apology.

Legolas came to the captain of the Galadhrim in the late evening, when Aragorn had called a brief hold for the sake of the horses. A cool fog was flowing down the mountains in stealthy tendrils that were dun-colored, not silver, touched by the distant glare of Mordor. The company and their steeds were black shadows that moved in the mist. Soft whispers drifted back and forth as the elves spoke among themselves. Timdaur, seated by the edge of the road, was examining his arrows one by one before light grew too dim for the exercise.

Legolas propped his cheek against the curving tip of his bow, watching the other elf's neat movements. I am sorry. My heart was wroth against the senselessness of what we saw. His speech was calm and steady now, though it still leapt with the passionate rhythm that was native to the north. And yet I have seen more of death than many in your company.

The captain finished sighting along a shaft, set it aside, and looked up. He inspected the younger elf with the same meticulous scrutiny. Legolas' eyes were clear and bright again, but there was a thoughtfulness in them which Timdaur had not noted before. The apology I accept. But you forget that sorrows have come to Lórien too.

Legolas glanced in the direction of the dwarf. Gimli and Aragorn sat a little apart from the elves and horses, sharing the peculiar comraderie of the pipe. I do not forget the Balrog, nor all the loss laid at its feet before Mithrandir threw it down.

I do not speak of Amroth and Nimrodel. The captain gestured, inviting him to take a seat upon the gray heather. But I am wary of saying too much, lest I rob you of your father's gift.

Legolas dropped beside him with his bow across his knees, moving with thoughtless grace. What gift is that?

To be what we were. Timdaur lowered his voice, although the dwarf and man were clearly out of earshot. By the grace of Galadriel, Lothlórien remains a mirror of Elder Days. But your father has grasped something older, the starlit time before the sun and moon. Though accounted a lesser race— do not bristle, Legolas— the Wood-elves he rules are a joyous, simple people, a last remnant of the elves who sang in the dark before our longfathers began the westward journey to wisdom and sorrow. The world has passed them by. And that is something to wonder at, for the shadow that lies on our borders lies even more heavily on yours.

Legolas spoke without pride or shame, passing a fingertip down his bowstring. We do not have the might to challenge Dol Guldur.

Timdaur dropped his arrows back into his quiver with a patter like hard rain. You keep far to the north, where some trees still grow unmarred. Many of us marvelled when one of the Woodland Realm ventured forth after so long, and was chosen to represent elves among the Nine who set out from Rivendell.

Legolas tried to discern his meaning, but this elf was skilled in saying nothing but the bald words themselves. It was my choice, he said firmly. I had hunted with Aragorn before, when he tracked a foul creature across our borders. When he proposed to go to Mordor, I stepped forward. Whatever you may think of us, the Silvan elves shall not stand idle when such perils threaten the world.

The Grey-elf eyed him shrewdly. There was a pause during which Timdaur seemed to be debating whether to say any more. Has your father told you of the Last Alliance, Legolas?

The archer's fair face grew suddenly troubled. No, and he will not. I know only that we fought with honor against the Enemy, and that my grandsire met a brave end before the gates of Mordor. The Wood-elves sing no songs of those days.

I thought this might be so. Timdaur seemed to be choosing his words with extra care. For in you I see no trace of horror from that day when all your father's household perished. Nor do you remember the faces of those who lie under the Dead Marshes, where I lost my king.

You were there? Legolas' expression grew suddenly keen.

I was. The captain shook his head. I was there, Thranduilion, and I can name a great many who did not return.

Tell me, Legolas asked earnestly. For my heart bodes I will follow Aragorn to the Black Gate. I would know of my people's deeds of valour, if I am to fight where they fell long ago.

The Grey-elf faced him sternly. Your father raised you Silvan, not Sindar, to spare you from old griefs. Hold fast to your beech-groves and the merry laughter of the Wood-elves. That undaunted spirit will serve you better than knowledge in these dark days. And have a care, _firvellon_. Aragorn is of a noble line surpassing other mortals, fostered by Lord Elrond and favored by the Lady herself. It is not strange to love such a man. But do not grow too fond of humbler folk, whose lives are brief. It is better to regard them only as we do the fleeting deer, not the everlasting stars.

Legolas stared at him. You speak of Haleth _fíriel._

In part. But your travel with the Fellowship has made you strange to us. He glanced pointedly towards Arod, cropping the grass nearby: one of two horses in the company that bore a saddle.

Did you send her away because of this? Legolas asked warily.

Timdaur frowned. Indeed not. I spoke truth. Think you she would have passed through the Haunted Mountain any way except strapped over a horse's back, and perhaps half-mad when we came out the other side? And Haldir had given her leave to part the company and mingle with her own kind. I took that as a command, whether or not she willed it.

Legolas laughed unexpectedly, remembering her habit of climbing everything. He wondered what men would say when they found her sleeping in the rafters of the king's hall. For a moment he forgot the gloom all around them. You will not so easily shake her from your trees, Timdaur. As dwarves crave gold, she craves golden leaves.

At that moment, Aragorn's summons rang out in the darkness, cutting through quiet conversations. _Si noro lim, Galadhrim._

Both elves rose to their feet. But Legolas held back to inquire, Why did you have her in your company at all?

The other elf shrugged as he turned away. Haldir claimed her. He said any mortal who could slip past him once must be under his eyes ever afterwards. As for Lord Celeborn, I do not know why he accepted her fealty, but she has caused no harm so far.

So far? echoed Legolas.

said Timdaur, moving rapidly towards his mount. We ride on.


	14. E BALANNOR Out of Valinor

Steadily the Gray Company lapped up the leagues between Erech and Pelargir, abandoned by living men. The long road bent southeast and came down out of the hills, angling towards the mouths of Anduin, the great river which flowed south past Minas Tirith and Pelargir on its way to the sea. Come nightfall, the journey grew darker and more perilous. It would have been easier for Gimli and Aragorn to walk through Mirkwood blindfolded. The Elves, however, whose forebears had arisen long ago in the cold world before sun and moon, needed no more than starlight to see. That luxury they did not have, but the red fires of Orodruin lit up the eastern sky, and that sufficed.

The company began to pass settlements more often. Thankfully, these showed no further signs of war, save that most of the people had left for Minas Tirith or the great stronghold of Dol Amroth on the southern coast. The few inhabitants who had refused to abandon their homes waited stoically behind barricaded doors with lights shuttered or extinguished. As the shadow host drew near, vague horror crept over their hearts, and they cowered in the darkness, bereft of reason and hope. But when the elves swept past their doors, many heard enchanting music that would come to them in dreams for the rest of their lives.

The elves were singing in the moonless night.

**A! Tollen gûr na Balannor  
Nu goll dhúath e nathron dhonn  
Onethelais panna i nôr  
Gelaidh gelaid go linnod an  
Nestad. Ai nae ú-amdir dâr.**

_ O! Come is death to Valinor  
Under shadowy cloak of the dark weaver.  
Yavanna fills the place  
of the Trees of Light with a chant  
Of healing. Ah alas, no hope remains._

** Harnannin athan nestad bân  
Telperion a Laurelin.  
Edhil ennas awarthar Dhûn  
Farol i viriath coren  
E galad vedui o Aman.**

_ Wounded beyond all healing  
Are Telperion and Laurelin.  
Elves there depart the west  
Seeking the jewels that held  
The last light of Aman._

** I aear dholl. Saer tîn vanadh.  
Aphadar lîn e-fast i chîn  
Finarfin. Athradar athrad  
Chelegnen. Sí falas thrúnen.  
I ithil eria. Romru cân.**

_ The sea is dark. Bitter is their fate.  
They follow the gleam of the hair of the children  
Of Finarfin. They cross the icy  
Passage. Here is the eastern shore.  
The moon rises. Trumpets ring out._


	15. I ATHRAD GILRAIN The Ford of Gilrain

At the river Gilrain they came at last upon the enemy, contesting the fords with the brave folk of Lamedon. Their plight was great. Mariners from Umbar had stolen upriver in boats and swarmed ashore on both sides, driving the defenders to the fords and hemming them in, until they had no place left to stand but the shoals themselves. A black tar had been cast upon the waters. Now the river steamed and flared with billowing fire, and the reeds along the banks put forth a thick dark smoke that shrouded even the light of the flames. Yet this proved the enemy's undoing, for it served to cloak the Gray Company's arrival.

Through the smoke burst Aragorn, escorted by a silent shower of arrows. Some burned as they came raining down. Water flew like sparks from the horses' legs, part of it ablaze, part merely giving back the light of the flames. Legolas and Gimli, hard on his heels, shot past him and clove their way through to the far side of the river. There they leapt down and held the bank side by side, challenging any who tried to flee. Timdaur and his company spread out, racing to encircle the attackers as they had done to Lamedon's folk. In the smoke the elves' numbers were hidden, and their pure, fearless voices put terror into the men of the south, who had not met their kind before.

There was a madness upon Aragorn as he drove into the fray. Eighty-three leagues and three days he had ridden with almost no rest, with darkness before him and shadows of the Dead at his back. Hundreds of miles more had he walked alone or with few comrades, dreading and looking ahead to Gondor's final days. Now the storm was unleashed. With every stroke that brought him closer to his own people, he fought more savagely. It was as if he were trying to tear the darkness from the sky or win back lives from the ashes of Ethring. The men of Lamedon took up his war-cry of _Elendil_ and roused themselves from despair, not knowing what or who had come among them. They rallied around the war-horse and turned upon their foes. Again and again Aragorn's weapon came crashing down, felling those who did not shrink from him in dismay. The dwarf and elf had good sport on the bank.

Yet the skirmish was over too soon for Gimli's liking. The Dead's coming tipped the scales. Awaiting Aragorn's word, they did not cross, but formed a cold wall of menace upon the western bank, a wave frozen in the instant before it broke. Their pallid mail and swords were dim in the dark, giving back no warmth or light from the flames; only their red eyes burned. But they did not need to be seen to work their spell. Friend and foe alike gave up the battle, hurled weapons down and ran, struggling wildly for the opposite shore.

Soon all that could be heard was the occasional twang of a bowstring and the slam of Gimli's axe, the moans of the dying, the hissing of reeds, and the plash of water over cobbles and the bodies of men. The elves began to form up behind Aragorn again, knowing his urgency: even for the wounded, they could not turn aside.

One man alone barred their way on a horse that trembled. His sword was bent, blood trickled from his helm to his grizzled beard, and his silver-edged blue cloak was torn and stained with soot. Dread was in his eyes. But he did not yield. Doggedly the rider spurred his way into Aragorn's path and challenged him at swordpoint. Who claims the fords of Gilrain? he demanded hoarsely. Ghosts or wights, this land is Gondor's, and not yours! Name yourselves, or some of you will not leave the river. So says Angbor, Lord of Lamedon.

Bows bent in answer.

Aragorn was gulping air that burned throat and lungs, and for a moment the two men faced off sword to sword, one wrestling with terror, the other with the fading embers of battle's fury. Smoke drifted around them, flickering a dull orange like the eastern sky. Then, slowly, the ranger withdrew his weapon and sheathed it. he said harshly, commanding the elves to back down their bows. Finally he raised his hands, palms forward. Aragorn son of Arathorn am I, Dúnadan out of the north, Isildur's Heir. But I make no claim now. My business is with Gondor's enemies, whom we have travelled long leagues to fight.

There was too little light to see what impression these words made upon the lord, but his sword wavered. Rumor of your riding came to us, he muttered. But also King of the Dead,' who leads wraiths like those which are the talons of the Dark Tower. Proof of one I see. He risked an uneasy glance at the western shore.

They are the Oathbreakers. Their tale is still told in Lamedon, is it not?

It is told, the man allowed. He looked upon Aragorn as one in anguish, afraid to use a rope to escape a burning tower lest it prove too slender for his weight.

The ranger held out a hand, gray eyes steady. On the shore behind him, Legolas stood in defiance of his last command with an arrow nocked, answering Gimli's glance with a terse nod that reaffirmed an old vow: _He will die before his stroke falls._ Aragorn, however, paid no heed to the bloody point hovering near his heart. His soft-spoken manner reasserted itself: earnest, gentle, but unyielding. My company and I have an errand in Pelargir, which will soon fall if we cannot bring aid. It would grieve me if we had to force our way past you.

Angbor's eye was drawn to the White Tree that glimmered on the vambrace covering his wrist. Then the lord caught sight of the ranger's ancient ring, its elvish silver untouched by the grime of battle. His fingers loosened. The sword fell, ringing out as it struck the stones below. His mount shied violently, but he held his seat and reached out across the gap to clasp Aragorn's hand. The Ring of Barahir, he said, voice hushed. Command me, lord.

Aragorn closed his left hand over Angbor's right, smiling. I see there are still loremasters in Lamedon. But why are you so far from your hold? And where is Prince Imrahil?

Pride touched the battered warrior's face. My liege has taken the Knights of the Swan to Minas Tirith. The White City will be safe if all else fails. The conviction behind his words was absolute. More grimly, he added, As for Edhellond, it burns.

That name drew keen glances from the waiting Galadhrim. Edhellond had been an elf-haven long ago, as its name signified, but it had been a thousand years since their last king had leapt from the ship and perished. None had sailed since.

Edhellond is taken? Aragorn asked sharply.

It was given. Angbor sagged when he released the ranger's hand. Fatigue and horror were starting to take their toll. It was just as well for him that Timdaur had come over, unnoticed, to soothe his frightened horse while they spoke.

I had neither men nor walls to defend it, Angbor went on, so I led my people to Dol Amroth and left my best archers with the garrison. The rest I led forth to add to the defense of Pelargir, but the enemy moves swiftly, and we are cut off.

The fords are cleared, Timdaur stated.

Angbor flinched at the strange voice. Blinking, the lord peered around himself, suddenly realizing what manner of folk had come to his aid.

Very good, said Aragorn. Explanations would have to wait. Angbor, we will clear a way. Rest, tend your wounded, then gather what men you can and follow. At Pelargir the Heir of Isildur will have need of you.

My lord. The weary warrior saluted him, and edged his horse to one side.

Aragorn waited for Timdaur to remount and Legolas and Gimli to rejoin them. Then Brego leapt forward and cleared the flames dying in the shallows. The host surged ahead. Angbor did not move. He sat dumb and dazed while elves and shadows parted ranks and flowed around him.

Long after the sound of galloping hooves had faded into the dusk, the lord stirred. he repeated. Then he drew a horn from his hip and blew a long note, summoning his scattered men. 


	16. Update

To Envinyatar and others who asked: yes, I had given up on this story, first for exams, and second because I had second thoughts. Reviewer Thuriniel's comments troubled me. She said to stop pretending Mary Sue was a crime and just enjoy myself. But I can do that perfectly well in ME-based roleplaying games, where I'm not contributing to the morass of Mary Sue literature already out there. There is much else in this story besides that, yet the mortal/immortal theme I was aiming for collapses without it, and suddenly I'm left with a bizarre Jacksonesque rewrite of LOTR with no plot or point to it.

Thus discouraged, I left the story hanging. Friends have been pushing me to continue, and I may, if I find my Muse for it again. Meanwhile I will post a few other short stories and poems I've jotted out since. Most are spontaneous improvisations with no polish or revision, so they may not be quite as good (one, ironically, is a classic Sue) but at least they are short. :) 


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